


The Heretic and the Lamb

by Atypicalgamergirl



Series: Aethyr Dreams: Forbidden Tales of Dunwall and Beyond [3]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games), LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Baleton, Blood and Gore, Dunwall (Dishonored), Endoria Street, Flooded District, Horror, Other, The Academy of Natural Philosophy, The Old Port District
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atypicalgamergirl/pseuds/Atypicalgamergirl
Summary: In the days of exile following his branding at the hands of Corvo Attano, former High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell and his secretary Lambert Teer form a plan to exact a terrible revenge. There is a secret buried deep, a secret that Campbell has kept hidden and waiting for the right moment to unearth and unleash.





	1. The Exile

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to The Fugue Feast of an Innocent, and acts as a prequel to the Return of Billie Lurk.

Dunwall, 1837

Brother Lambert Teer hurried his way back the Office the High Overseer, anxious to share his success in acquiring a set of the notes that the High Overseer had sent him to fetch. He had not been particularly excited by the prospect of visiting the Academy, but had dutifully (and secretly happily – though he would never admit so) agreed to what had been tasked to him.

The High Overseer had been increasingly quiet and preoccupied since the assassination of the Empress and the evenings spent over wine and plotting had dwindled to none. Brother Lambert had struggled not to take this as a slight as he and Campbell had been close for a good number of years – closer than was perhaps comfortable for public knowledge and there had been nothing that Campbell had failed to share with him in those years. Since Corvo Attano’s escape the previous month Campbell had turned to him less and less often, and Lambert found himself performing his duties as the Secretary to the High Overseer in an increasingly chilly and quiet environment. Lambert knew better than to inquire about Campbell’s inward turn and of course Campbell did not offer anything by way of explanation. Lambert was distressed at watching Campbell continue to plot and scheme without him, but he hid his irritation with grace and determination – agreeing to carry out this task or that, tasks upon whose completion were helpful in small but important ways. Lambert was grateful that he was able to be a part of it – even something as menial as fetching bottles of Tyvian red for some meeting or other that Campbell needed them for this evening. He hoped that it would not be Overseer Hume that Campbell was meeting with tonight. 

More than once over the past few weeks Lambert had walked into urgent quiet conversation between the two of them only to have the words snap off into silence at the moment he approached. Lambert was not a jealous man, but it made him uncomfortable to think of someone usurping the position of Campbell’s most trusted confidant – and especially uncomfortable that it was Hume. Hume’s loyalty to his brethren and to the Strictures was beyond reproach but amongst the other Overseers he was known primarily for his rashness and tendency to act before speaking. The man often refused outright to complete the various forms and warrants to the satisfaction of Lambert, and requests for revisions or rewrites were met with a flat half-smile and sometimes to Lambert’s fury simply taking them from Lambert and tipping them into the trash. Lambert had difficulty trusting a man who could not, or would not take on something as important as accurate and thorough documentation. It did not help that Hume occupied the very same desk that Martin had during his clerking days with the Archive. 

Lambert was well aware that his fellow Overseers mocked him and his dedication to the care and keeping of the files in the Archive, but he did not care. What the Overseer clerks recorded, and their punctuality and accuracy in doing so were critical to the success of the Abbey. He wanted there to be no questions when it was time for answers – this meant keeping tidy records and a dedication to gathering and collating multiple accounts into packets that were carefully catalogued as to provide quick and easy-to-access answers to whichever questions may arise. Besides, there was a quiet power in being the keeper of the records. He knew where every record was, could from visual memory alone recall parts of these records, and in the unlikely event that he did not remember them they were always within quick reach. Campbell was absolutely reliant on Lambert for this and other reasons, but there was little that Lambert could do but try to put this anomaly of Campbell’s distance out of his mind. As for Hume, Lambert wasn’t sure if he was projecting his distrust and hatred of Martin onto Hume, or if Hume was simply just an asshole but either way he would keep an eye on him. He would keep an eye on Martin as well. In a few minutes, he would be walking right past him shackled up on Holger Square. Maybe he would stop for a chat. Perhaps he’d inquire politely about Martin’s condition, and then spit right in his eyes. His mind wandered for a moment on various scenarios to be played out with Brother Choffer Martin, but his thoughts quickly moved on to other far more important things as he turned the corner onto Clavering and made his way to the Square. 

Campbell would certainly thaw and thank him when he showed him the set of notes that he had transcribed largely from memory after his first reading under the watchful (and distrustful, no doubt) eye of the Academy archivist on duty this evening. The man - John something-or-other from Baleton watched these archives with a ridiculous hawk-eyed tenacity as if anything pertaining to Baleton was worth the time or effort to guard. It was only his position as the Secretary of the High Overseer that granted him access to the file that requested, and while he walked into the Academy Archive more annoyed than curious, he walked out with a very different mindset. 

The packet that he had been studying in the restricted section of the Baleton archive had been protected by an astonishing series of intricate threads of delicate metal woven into the very meat of the ledger bindings and into the weave of the pages themselves. He had learned when signing a confidentiality agreement, a transcription disclaimer and a liability waiver that attempting to remove this packet or even so much as an inch of any of its material would result in a quick vaporizing courtesy of the discreet wall of light built into the Archive threshold that Lambert had failed to notice on his way in. 

Lambert had an entirely different outlook on his task after reading the documents that were pertinent to Campbell’s needs, and by the time he had transcribed the last of the needed documents he had an entirely different outlook on Baleton as well. His mind had gone immediately to the Keziah Everleigh interrogation, and he realized why Campbell needed this information. What Lambert found held a good deal of information that acted as good companion to the missing Everleigh files. Lambert had memorized Keziah Everleigh’s file as he was compiling it and wasn’t concerned about losing access to the information. Rose Everleigh’s file he could care less about – she had turned out to be very little more than a dead end. If Martin ever got anything more out of her he never mentioned so. While Lambert was not concerned about the loss of access to the information he was, however very concerned about where the packets could have ended up. There was no telling what an educated and determined person could or would do with the implications of those reports. As for the Baleton files in the Academy Archive - he wasn’t sure if Campbell had personally seen or read any of the files but he had a pretty good idea that he hadn’t. Baleton. Imagine that. He had considered it not much more than the only place in the Isles to find genuine Flin but now….

Holger Square just up ahead now, and Lambert hurried his steps. It had taken considerably longer to complete the transcription than he had anticipated, and the sun had sunk behind the tops of the buildings at least a half-hour past. It had begun to drizzle again, and the wind was picking up. He was surprised to see no one on duty at the door-gate to Holger Square, and made a note to compose a compound-wide memo on the importance of vigilance in guard duties, particularly in these times of heightened… and so on and so forth. There was something calming about composing the various forms and memos, something that embodied orderliness while holding the potential of power.

His mind was still dancing around just the right phrasing as he opened the door to the gate, and the words immediately died in his mind when he saw the empty stocks up ahead. Martin! Why on earth had they taken him so soon, and why had they done so without the proper documentation and followup? There was no reason or explanation that he could think of that could calm the red fury building behind his eyes. They were supposed to keep him locked tight for at least five days, or until he was begging for death – however long that would have taken. He didn’t even have the execution forms finalized yet! He looked around for the watch but didn’t see him. Damn that Jasper, he knew good and well what the protocols were and yet he was nowhere to be found. He stood quietly in front of the empty stocks, breathing in and out slowly to calm his angry thoughts and it occurred to him that this could not have happened without the orders of the High Overseer to do so. His fury faded to anxiety as he tried to force his thoughts from the implications of this. Campbell knew how meticulous Lambert was, and in all the years he had spent working at his side he had never once failed to accommodate Lambert’s insistence on proper documentation. He would even kid him about it, insofar as Campbell was capable of joking. What was going on? Hume. That bastard. That must be it. That worm must have undermined him, and convinced Campbell to turn to him instead. That would explain the fool’s errands he was sent on this evening. Hume, and Campbell for that matter must have planned for the execution in private and sent Lambert out on what had proven to be a very lengthy mission in order to bypass his services which clearly were no longer needed. 

Lambert set his jaw, pulled his mask strap a little tighter and made his way to the watch gate. If even so much as one of those watch bastards said a word to him he would… Lambert stopped. There was no watch on duty. It was quiet, far too quiet. He was confused, but when he let himself into the watch office and saw the first of what would prove to be many dead Overseers his confusion congealed to fear. He broke out into a cold sweat, suddenly very aware that there could be any number of murderers just on the other side of the desk or standing in wait through the door to the front yard. He slowed his breathing, and slowly made his way around the various scattered parts of the Overseer, struggling not to slip in the pools of blood and gobs of slippery innards. He gingerly reached out to tip the cracked mask to see if he could identify the Overseer but when he did, what was left of the man’s skull simply fell open like the bloom of a terrible flower, exposing a center of pulp, teeth and splinters of bone. Lambert stood, his head spinning and his vision darkening. The smell of blood and the insides of whoever this Overseer had been was everywhere. His mind unwittingly slipped back to the aftermath of the Keziah Everleigh interrogation. Only a small number of them had survived that night, and the ones who hadn’t had taken a long time to hose out of the various cracks and crannies of the Interrogation room. Had that … _thing_ come back for them? Campbell! 

Lambert had put all thoughts of anger from his mind, all thoughts of Hume – the Baleton notes were forgotten in the pouch under his jacket. All he could think about was to find Campbell, if he were still in one piece that is. He felt sick thinking about it, and as he walked into the yard he realized in his shock that he hadn’t heard the sirens – how could he have not heard them from the Square? There were dead Overseers strewn about, bits of man and hound alike scattered like so much offal on a slaughterhouse floor. Those who lived were on their knees rocking mutely back and forth, their tongues frozen to even the Strictures. Lambert gave up trying to ask any of them questions – none responded to him, didn’t even seem to see him. He broke into a full run, charging up the steps to the Office of the High Overseer, and when he burst through the large doors he was surrounded nearly instantly by Overseers. Lambert felt that his mind would crack wide open at this lunacy and managed to get a few words out without so much as a crack in his voice. “What in the name of the Strictures is going on here?! I demand answers and I demand them now. Where is the High Overseer?” The Overseers simply responded with clipped answers, none of the usual respect in their voices. “Come with us, Brother Lambert” They were leading him to the Interrogation Room. He remembered this same moment, in another time years ago when he led Martin there after the Everleigh interrogation. He found himself reciting the Strictures over and over as his mind tried to blot out what had happened in there, what he prayed had not happened again. 

As soon as the Overseer unlocked and opened the door, Lambert was hit with the sweet stench of burning flesh even as he noticed the distinct absence of full wall-washes of human innards, and he was overwhelmed with the relief of calm. Several Overseers were surrounding the chair – their broad backs blocking the view of whoever was unfortunate enough to be shackled in there. They must have caught who did this and commenced with the torture. His rational brain took over – struggling to find something familiar to latch onto – something comforting and proper to regain his bearings and he heard himself saying perhaps a quarter-octave higher and considerably louder than usual “Overseer, how many times have I made it perfectly clear that proper ventilation is a must when undertaking this sort of… " The Overseers moved away from the chair at the sound of his voice and turned to him, stepping aside to reveal who was strapped in there under the harsh glare of a single spotlight. 

Lambert’s mind turned itself inside out at the sight of Campbell, the _High Overseer_ strapped into the chair. His face… what had been done to him? The side of his face was covered in some sort of formless wet yellow lumps and clear taut bubbles stretching from his eye socket down to his mouth – it was a mess of glistening red and crisped black between the yellow weeping lumps. He looked around in shock at the Overseers who simply looked back at him, quiet and impassive under their masks. Lambert looked back down and his eyes caught something on the floor by the side of the chair. The Heretic’s Brand. Lambert bent and picked it up in a daze, turning it this way and that looking at something stuck to it – some thin crisped bit of skin, something … eyelashes. Lambert bent and vomited violently, and twice more before wiping his mouth with the back of his glove and trembling as he came back to full stand.

His voice was quiet and his back turned to the Overseers when he asked them “Who did this.” None of them answered and when he turned to face them Lambert’s voice was louder, slowly becoming more steady. “I said WHO DID THIS!” A muffed groan came from behind him. Campbell… he was alive?! He turned back to Campbell who had begun to weakly struggle, and fighting back his nausea at the smell of the chemically-enhanced burn leaned in closely to hear what he was trying to say. “Corvo… bastard…” Lambert whispered to him urgently, “Thad, what are you talking about? What happened?” Campbell opened his mouth wider to speak and his burnt lip burst open with a wet pop. Runlets of blood, yellow fluid and some thin black substance oozing from what was left of a broken and badly burned tooth leaked from his mouth and down his chin. His words were mushy but coherent. "He was marked. Bastard was marked. Help me. Help me.” 

Lambert stood and whipped around to the quiet Overseers. “Help me, give me the key – help me get him…” but he was interrupted by one of them. “Surely you of all people know that helping him is a crime.” Lambert was stunned. “He was branded by a _heretic_ you fool – surely you realize this is not legitimate! Now get over here and help me with the High Overseer!” The Overseers simply stood still and silent, and one of them reached into his jacket pocket for something and tossed it to Lambert who caught it without realizing at first what it was. The shackle key. They stood and waited until Lambert turned to Campbell and began unlocking the shackles. He did not turn when the Overseer said “You have until sunrise to leave the premises. You may take whatever you wish of your possessions, and you will not be accosted or harmed in the process, but mind my words Lambert. If either of you are still here when the sun comes up, you will both be executed without hesitation and fed to the hounds.” The Overseers turned and left them alone, and Lambert continued unlocking the shackles and unstrapping the fetters that held Campbell to the chair. There were only a few hours left before the sun rose, and there was much that had to be done in that time, and many questions to be answered.


	2. The Exiles Take Flight

The sun was rising just as Lambert closed the door to Holger Square behind themselves and stepped out onto Clavering. They each had packed as much as they could hold in their Overseer duffels, not that there had been much to pack. By the time Lambert and Campbell made their way to where their belongings had been stored they had been thoroughly ransacked. Neither had much by way of valuables, but anything that could have fetched a coin or two on the market had been taken and much of what was left broken, shredded or stomped into stinking piss-wet shreds. Campbell’s private chamber had been locked, and was guarded by two Overseers. Their stance suggested that even so much as speaking to them would be a mistake, much less trying to appeal to any chance of sympathy. Lambert wasn’t sure why, but Campbell had been particularly shaken by being locked out of the chamber but would not share what had been in there that he had wanted to get. Campbell’s grim demeanor darkened further as they rifled through what meager scraps of belongings that they had left. The last round they made was the Archive and Evidence rooms, which remarkably were unguarded – completely unattended, in fact. Lambert was relieved to see Campbell’s mood lighten somewhat as he looked around the rooms, scanning for any Overseers that may have been present. Campbell left Lambert in the Archive with instructions on specific files that he wanted pulled, and headed to the Evidence rooms.

***

Campbell was fairly sure that only he and Martin knew about the hidden area in the alcove, and he desperately hoped that Martin had not had his sticky fingers in there prior to being caught. He looked around once more, and rolled the ladder over to the last set of evidence lockers on the left side of the room. Just above the top row of lockers, there was a small notch in the plaster – nothing that anyone would ever notice, and to his relief from the layers of cobwebs and dust over the notch it looked like no one had. He breathed in and out slowly, lightheaded with hope. He would need what was in there, among other things, and once he had everything in place there would be no escape from his wrath, none whatsoever. He grimaced in disgust as he worked his finger through the grit of dust and webs in the notch and then sighed in relief when he pulled the small door open and saw it was still there in the small nook: a squat leaded-glass wide-mouthed apothecary jar, stoppered with a heavy fitted lid and sealed with a thick rim of lead solder. As he reached for the jar, he could see movement through the thick glass – it was waking to him, responding to the promise of his touch. As with every time he had taken a moment to observe the reactions of his proximity to what was in the jar, he felt waves of equal parts revulsion and satisfaction. He traced a fingertip along the glass, watching as it followed along – drawn to him. He smiled then, not caring that his lip had split afresh – in fact, he welcomed the pain. The thing vibrated and flattened itself against the glass, reaching for his pain. “In time, my sweet. In time.”

***

Lambert hadn’t found anything worth bringing from the Archive outside of the handful of files that Campbell had instructed him to pull. He had carefully arranged them, and added the Baleton notes in a neat stack before slipping them into his inside jacket pocket. The sky had begun to lighten and he was antsy waiting for Campbell to get back from the Evidence rooms. After what seemed like an eternity, Campbell finally returned carrying a tightly tied off bag. “There you are, Thad. Now, let’s get out of these uniforms and get the hell out of here.” Campbell narrowed his eyes, or at least one of them and what was left of the other. “No, Lambert. No. We are going to walk out of here just as we are now. These reds are mine; do you hear me?” He did not wait for Lambert to protest. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

Once out on Clavering, Lambert thought he would feel relief at walking away unharmed but any chance of that had died when Campbell had refused to entertain the notion of changing into civilian clothing. He felt as if they were two glowing filaments walking through the gray watery light of the morning, attracting stares – eyes on them, swarming them like moths drawn to their blatant shine, or perhaps like flies to corpses. Lambert shuddered, not wanting to put much thought into corpses. Of all the things that lay ahead for him, only one of them truly frightened him and that was the rat plague. He had felt safe in the Office, if for no other reason than that there was a tangible sense of protection though he knew no walls would truly keep out the plague. This was not a subject he wanted to broach with Campbell – it seemed too large to discuss, so frightening in its scope that it better lay before a blind eye than skate off a babbling tongue. Campbell hadn’t said anything since walking out of the large double doors of the Office. He had walked out, head high, back straight and when they passed through the security gate he had not so much as tipped his face a single degree toward any of the Overseers silently watching on. When they approached the door to Clavering, he had not looked back. Not even when Lambert turned to close the door behind them. Lambert was impressed with Campbell’s resolve. Even now, blocks away from Holger, Campbell walked as if he were still the High Overseer, and he had not spoken a single word. Lambert was full of questions, and seeing no better time began to ask them.

“Why was I not involved with Martin’s execution, Thad?” At this question, Campbell broke from his iron stoicism. “What?!” Lambert was not in the mood to entertain mendacity, and pushed on. “When I arrived this evening, the stocks were empty. Not that it matters anymore but I cannot begin to fathom what was going through your mind to carry out the execution, and with Leonard Hume of all people! Did you really think that ..” Campbell looked at Lambert with wonder, it dawning on him that Lambert had no idea what had happened to Martin. “Executed? Lamb, did you see his body? _Answer me!_ Did you see Martin’s body? Where is it now?!” Lambert stopped, confused. “Well, no I didn’t see his body. Are you telling me that you didn’t carry out his execution?” Campbell stopped, and Lambert could see a flush building up his neck and face as realization overtook confusion. “I understand now Lamb. Oh, how clear it is becoming. Corvo must have sprung him free just before …” Campbell went quiet for a bit as Lambert took it in. That must have been how Corvo not only knew about the brand, but was able to locate and use it with remarkable efficiency. Martin’s ambition was no secret but because of his stellar performance as an Overseer and his uncanny talent as a strategist it was just assumed that ambition was a natural part of his overall makeup. How long had Martin been planning this? In the course of a few hours, he had managed to clear a path to the position of High Overseer and not only that – had done so in such a way that Campbell would be granted the humiliating privilege of being a spectator to it from the outside. Lambert was stunned at how deeply they had underestimated Teague Martin even as they had known him very well over the years. Well, well – Corvo Attano was certainly in for a surprise. The Royal Protector didn’t know Martin at all, and Lambert very much doubted that Corvo had any idea that as sure as the sun rises in the sky every morning he would find himself swatted easily aside, mark or no mark as Martin marched over him toward his goal.

The two of them continued to walk, seemingly without aim. Lambert grew nervous. It was clear that word was making its way quickly and had already seemed to have spread ahead of them. What were at first curious looks at them had become sinister, taunting. “Thad,” Lambert whispered quietly, “aren’t you worried that we are going to be attacked? Any one of these choffers can take us out at any time now, with no consequence.” Campbell looked at him, a strangely bemused look on his face. “Lamb, we are perfectly safe. Watch this.”

Campbell broke off to the right, and strode directly to a pock-faced Lower Watchman leaning against a lamp-pole. The Watch stood straight, crossing his arms and fixed his hooded eyes to a distant point off to one side of Campbell’s head. Campbell stopped in front of the Watch, and demanded the man look at him. Nothing. Lambert’s heart was in his throat but he relaxed and watched in disbelief as Campbell spewed a steady stream of abuse inches from the man’s face – everything from what a waste the man was of his father’s syphilitic fluids to the nature of his mother’s rotting frog-slimed whore cunt that he had crawled out of. Still nothing. Lambert’s eyes widened as Campbell held up his hand, nearly brushing the man’s indifferent face as he graced the man with a particularly crude and insulting Tyvian gesture involving three fingers.

Campbell stepped back from the man, his arms wide “See, Lambert? See?!” Campbell’s voice grew louder. “You know what is safer than being a wanted man? Being an invisible one!” his voice rising to a shout, blood and pus spraying from the burnt remains of his burst open lips “I am Thaddeus Campbell, High Overseer and I was branded _against my will_ for no reason!” All around, various Overseers and members of the Watch turned away refusing to see him, hear him. “I am not worth even killing now, Lambert!” Campbell spun and shouted and spat, roaring with bitter laughter - putting himself in front of anyone he could he hit with a mouthful of gore. Eventually Campbell slowed, stopped and bent over, resting his hands on his knees and breathing deeply. Lambert knew the shock must have worn off, and he would need to get Campbell cleaned up and try to do something to stop the corrosive effects of the branding before it got any worse.

When Campbell came to a stand again, Lambert guided him gently toward the side street that led over to the side entrance to the Golden Cat. It was his hope that Dr. Killjoy would be there today, and barring that at least one of the young street medics that frequented the place to use as practice toward their trade. Campbell calmed down as they walked, his gait steadying and his breathing returning to normal. He had turned his anger now toward Corvo, ranting about the gross violation of being branded a heretic by an agent of the Outsider, the unfairness of being thrown out of his own place in the world against his will and through no fault of his own and finally Lambert couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Thad, your lack of self-awareness is astonishing. Do you hear yourself? You have spent the better part of your life as judge, jury and executioner of those very heretics that you, _we_ now find ourselves a part of. Do you really mean to stand there and hold yourself up as the superior victim among victims? We are done, Thad. Done. It was all _shit_ , Thad. All of it. The Strictures, the Abbey, the Sisters. You know it, I know it.”

Campbell looked at him, shocked and then a slow smile crept over his face as he began to chuckle. “Oh Lambert,” he said stopping to hock and spit in a grossly exaggerated way, “You always amuse me.” Lambert pressed his lips, furious. Campbell knew how much he hated that sort of ridiculous banter. Overseers, the Watch – they all repeated inane phrases over and over as a sort of injoke followed by brays of ‘har har har’ laughter followed by thick ratty wet hocks and spits, as if repeating such idiocy was supposed to somehow make it funny. Lambert shook his head, making a disapproving sound. Campbell clapped him on the back, still chuckling and they made their way over to the ‘Cat.

***

When Lambert and Campbell walked up through the courtyard, they were met with the same cold indifference amongst the guardsmen – which, Lambert had to admit was far preferable to the alternative. They walked into the parlor, the warm pink and red lighting comforting. Madame Prudence was busy having a hushed conversation with a guard off to the side of the reception desk, but Lambert was greatly relieved to see who he was hoping would be there. The girl behind the desk talking to the receptionist was exactly who he wanted to see. Lambert could never remember her name. She was rumored to be the only child hailing from one of the oldest and most well-established family names in Dunwall. Unfortunately, the passing of her parents cut short her aspirations and set her adrift – young, smart but ultimately unmarriageable she had washed up in Dunwall’s underbelly but had managed to accomplish what few women in her place had. She could have ended up dead in an alley, or eked out a life as a second-string whore but she had not. She had taken the small pockets of knowledge gained during her truncated time at the Academy and built on them, and by sheer will had gained a solid reputation as a damned good medic despite her young years and unfortunate luck to have been born a woman, and not a particularly comely one either. She had certainly helped him out more than a few times with Campbell’s ‘accidents’ foisted on various ‘Cat girls, and always with nary a comment or even hint of judgement. He wouldn’t go so far as to say they were on friendly terms, but right now she was the friendliest face they had. The only one, truthfully.

Campbell walked over to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, hunching low with fatigue and pain ignoring the sour look that Madame Prudy shot toward him and the mess that his freely leaking face was making on the carpet. No one here gave a shit either way about heretics or the rules regarding the treatment of such, but it was clear that they weren’t going to be able to keep sitting out in the open here like this. Not good for business.

The receptionist and the girl turned toward Lambert as he approached the desk. The receptionist seemed to be out of words at the moment, but the other girl – the medic, pushed her spectacles up on her unfortunate bulbous nose and narrowed her eyes. “Brother Lambert, what a surprise. There aren’t any ‘mistakes’ to fix right now – why are you here?” Right to the point, she was. “Just Lambert,” he said quickly. She just stared at him pointedly, and he wondered if she misunderstood his intentions with dispensing with ‘Brother’. “Yes, well - hello, um..” She shook her head slowly, her mouth set in a grim line and sighed. “ _Anne._ Its Anne.” Lambert, embarrassed, continued. “Ah yes, Anne. Well, it seems we – that is, High Over… um, Thaddeous” he stammered, and then finally decided to dispense with the formalities. “Anne, look at him. He’s been branded. He’s badly burned and needs help. It isn’t as simple as just a burn – I can explain more, but it isn’t something that uh… _regular_ medical attention can help.” Anne looked over at Campbell, who looked up at her at that moment and Lambert saw her eyes widen slightly when she saw the inflamed suppurating remains of the half of Campbell’s face that had been turned away.

Anne looked over at Madame Prudy, who merely nodded silently and then Anne took them upstairs to the sick room. On the way up, Campbell explained to Anne briefly about what had happened, and the implications of being branded. Anne furrowed her brow a time or two, but otherwise had no comment, or at least none that she cared to share. Once up in the sickroom there was no time wasted. Lambert watched Anne work – all efficiency and succinct questions about the process and Campbell answered them frankly. She worked quickly, Campbell wincing under her gentle but quick puncture and draining of the full yellow blisters and the debriding of the shreds of pus and blood-wet burnt skin. If it overly pained him, he didn’t say so – though Lambert noticed he was clutching particularly tightly to the edges of the table Anne had him perched on.

The caustic chemical was continuing to work quickly, but not as quickly as Anne. “If you have any intention of keeping what is left of your face, you’ll need to tell me in as few words as possible what chemical was used to do this so I can figure out how to counteract it.” Campbell answered readily, easily giving up a long-held secret that he no longer gave a shit about keeping. “Lye, young lady. Boiled from the ashes of Dinistrio Olive tree wood.” Anne huffed through her nose, mumbling something about the overkill of what was already a barbaric act. Dinistrio olive wood was itself an irritant – the byproducts of which were useful for some elixers, but to make lye from it? She supposed in context it would make sense to make damn sure that some scars never healed, but in general there was no use for it that she could think of outside of torture.

“Well, you’re in luck” she said holding the side of her spectacles and peering closely at the edges of bone visible through Campbell’s cheek after the debridement. “I just so happen to have access to exactly what we need.” Lambert audibly sighed in relief. He was sure that whatever could neutralize such horrific corrosion would cost a fortune, and in his mind he was already tallying up in his mind what he could sell, arrange to sell, or if needed steal and then arrange to sell. “Name your price, Anne” he said, expecting the worst.

Anne tugged away a particularly soft wad of swollen yellow fatty meat from the remains of Campbell’s lower lip and plopped it wetly down on the bloody rag on the table and looked over at Lambert. “Well, it _is_ a precious fluid, Broth.. um, Lambert – something vital and critical for life.” Lambert kept his face straight, willing himself not to flinch under her deadpan gaze. A smile began to tug at the side of Anne’s mouth, and before an infuriated Lambert could protest she walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Its _water_ , Lambert. Relax. Go down to reception and ask the girl there, Sugar, to get someone to take you down to the kitchen. Get me the biggest stock pot they have and a dram of vinegar and meet us in the shower room.” Anne looked at Campbell, whose face still held a shadow of shock that something as simple as water held the cure for a secretive corrosive reagent that had taken decades to perfect through many trial and error torture sessions.

When Lambert returned with the large pot and the small bottle of vinegar, Anne already had Campbell undressed and lying on the floor of the shower room. He filled the pot with water as instructed and she tipped just a few drops of vinegar into the tepid water before getting his help to slowly tip it over Campbell’s face. Campbell sputtered and coughed against the water working its way up into his nose and into his mouth, but otherwise took the seemingly endless pours over his face fairly well. After a short time, Anne stopped and pulled Campbell to his feet and peered into the ragged edges of his face, lightly prodding here and there before patting his face carefully with a towel. Lambert had difficulty seeing Campbell like this – naked, humbled and quiet obeying Anne’s orders without question. He turned away, busying himself with gathering up the many towels on the floor, emptying the last of the water from the pot – anything to avoid seeing Campbell so… subservient. He was glad for the success of the treatment, but it was hard to see such a force like Campbell in such a helpless condition. Campbell got dressed quickly, pulling his reds back on over still-damp skin. He looked relieved, at least until Anne said “ok, time to take care of that tooth.”

***

It was late afternoon when they finally left the Golden Cat. Campbell was pale and quiet. Anne had given him tincture of morphia before pulling his burnt broken tooth, and a good dose of opium afterward but it was evident that the pain was still gnawing at Campbell’s edges. The exhaustion had set in for Lambert now. In all the chaos, he had not considered one important detail. Now that they were out, and Campbell treated he had no idea where they were supposed to go now. He looked around, unsure of which direction to turn next. Campbell seemed to be reading his mind at that moment, and said as if to answer, “The Old Port District, Lambert. That is where we need to go. I happen to know of just the place. Yes, _just the place_.” The Old Port District? Lambert wasn’t sure why exactly but it seemed as good a place as any at this point. They walked on, shifting their duffles from shoulder to shoulder as they seemed to get heavier as the walk got longer.

When they reached the Distillery District, Lambert noticed Campbell looking around more often, becoming oddly cautious given their relative state of invisibility. Even the rough men walking the streets out from under the eye of the Watch paid no attention to them. The loudspeaker announcements pertaining to the branding had begun just before they crossed over into the district, but if anything Lambert saw that as an added layer of protection.

Campbell guided them around the corner of Clavering and took a turn onto Endoria street. They walked on, Lambert watching Campbell carefully, wondering what he was up to. Campbell stopped in front of the old pauper boneyard and stood for a moment, looking up and down the street and up at the rooftops. It was quiet down on this end of Endoria, and thankfully deserted. Campbell put his hand on Lambert’s shoulder and leaned in closely talking quietly even though there was no one around to hear. “I have hidden something here, Lambert. My greatest treasure. We must be quick.” He strode out into the thick mud, seemingly at random but it became clear that he did indeed have a specific spot in mind. The graveyard sloped down slightly at the far corner and it was here that Campbell asked Lambert to keep watch. Campbell set down his duffle, sank to his knees and began to dig at a spot exactly where the crumbling rock walls met in a rough semblance of a corner.

Within a half-hour, Campbell called Lambert over to see what he had dug up. It was a small half-trunk, made of some sort of light-colored metal with thick bands of lead sealed around the width of it. Lambert was greatly curious as to what kind of ‘treasure’ Campbell could have in the small trunk, and moreover what he would have entrusted to bury among the city’s indigents, but Campbell didn’t offer any further information. He simply gestured for Lambert to grab the far end handle while he grabbed the other. Lambert was expecting the trunk to be quite heavy, but for a metal trunk with lead banding it was surprisingly light. Between the two of them, they were able to carry it fairly easily to the Old Port District with only a handful of stops to shift their duffles and catch their breaths. They helped themselves to whatever foodstuffs they found lying around on the way – sometimes walking up to unsuspecting citizens sitting outside at tables and taking what they wanted from their plates or even from their hands without a word. They didn’t need to say anything really, between Campbell’s destroyed face and his uniform and the endless announcements as to his expected treatment from citizens there was not a guard or citizen that made a single move in their direction nor did any react to their blatant thievery.

The sun was nearly below the horizon when they reached the Old Port District. Large swaths of the district were boarded off and quarantined against the onslaught of the plague. They passed by where the Hound Pits lay behind the high barriers, and within no more than a few blocks they had reached where Campbell had wanted them to go. Lambert stood looking up at the building. _Martin’s_ building. Of course. He had forgotten all about it, even though he had been the one to stamp the ‘eviction via heresy’ orders that Martin had drawn up in order to have the building to himself. Campbell looked satisfied with himself as he stood with his hands on his hips looking up at the building. The front door was boarded over, which was a good sign but it was clear from the first easy give of the boards that it was only _meant_ to appear so. Lambert was uneasy, wondering if Martin was hiding inside but Campbell didn’t seem to be concerned at all. In fact, he seemed even more eager to work his way inside.

They worked quickly and as quietly as they could, until they finally cleared the door. To their surprise it was not locked, but that didn’t deter Campbell or even slow him down. They stepped inside the musty dark of the place. It was clear that the bottom floor had not been used in many years so they didn’t bother checking any of the rooms, nor did they for the second floor. As they made their way up to the third floor they began to see signs that someone had been there, and recently as well. Very recently. They set down the trunk and their duffles and worked each of the doors on the third floor until they got to the one at the end of the hall furthest from the stairwell. Campbell laid his hand on the doorknob, and stood quietly as if listening. Lambert watched as a slow smile made its way painfully across what was left of Campbell’s mouth. Campbell looked up, his dark eyes glittering in the near-darkness and said “Welcome to our new home, Lamb” and opened the door.


	3. Unburied Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the children of the dark are more to name than are the wretched,  
> Or the broken, or the weary, or the baffled, or the shamed:  
> There are builders of new mansions in the Valley of the Shadow,  
> And among them are the dying and the blinded and the maimed.
> 
> \-- Edwin Arlington Robinson, The Valley of the Shadow

The first thing Lambert noticed when they walked in was the smell. The atmosphere seemed heavier inside Martin’s rooms, as if dust had displaced air. There were the usual smells of a long-shut place – damp, mildew, dry-rot, rats - but lingering somewhere behind these were undercurrents of things his mind was having trouble reconciling. He could smell something faintly like that of the incense used in the Office meditation rooms, only sweeter – perhaps edged with some kind of delicate flowers. He walked around in the dark bumbling at first, feeling around for something with which to light the room. He banged his thighs hard on a table that he had not seen and was rubbing them down, swearing under his breath when the room suddenly brightened. Campbell had found a lamp, and to both their surprises there had been more than enough oil in the old lines to not only light that lamp, but any of the others as well. Campbell began rummaging through the cabinets, pulling down various bottles admiring them as he turned them over in his hands. He brought one over to the table, opened it and began to take generous pulls from it. “Ah, genuine Flin. I never thought I’d taste this again.” Lambert shook his head, hoping that Campbell wouldn’t drink too much of it. He knew all too well from years past during Fugue Feasts what could go right with Flin, but what also could go very wrong. Too much, and even the most spineless of fools thought themselves dangerously invincible. Much more than the limit, and men with Campbell’s proclivities would become increasingly more imaginative with each level of heightened violence. Right now, the last thing Lambert needed from Campbell was useless bravado, or that particular brand of violence. 

Lambert looked over at Campbell drinking, relieved that Anne’s treatment seemed to have calmed the angriest parts of the wounds. He could see a bright wet shine of cheekbone through the soft ragged edges of skin torn when the brand had been pulled from his face. He wondered if Campbell’s mouth would ever look normal again, but supposed once healed he would get used to it. He leaned back in the old wood straight-back chair and stretched out his legs, trying to relax. His boot ran over something soft and he snatched his foot back fearing he had rolled over some part of a dead rat but when he looked down he saw something crumpled there - soft and black, no.. maybe dark violet? He leaned down and picked it up. It was velvety, but also somehow unpleasantly damp. Flower petals? Holding it up to his nose, he took a tentative sniff and nearly gagged from the sensation that it sent through him. It smelled like still water, but far less pleasant – maybe edging on rank mud or the muck that accumulated at the mouths of runoff pipes. There was something else there too, something his mind could not make a connection with – something vaguely human, intimate. It reminded him of what was left to sop up off the interrogation chair after one of Campbell’s particularly brutal witch-torture sessions. 

He came to focus and realized that Campbell was looking at him, clearly amused at the various contortions in which Lambert’s face had been unconsciously pulled. Lambert held the wad of crushed petals out to Campbell, who made no move to take it. “Can you smell that, Thad? What _is_ that?” Campbell leaned forward, his mouth twisting with the attempt of a smile. “Whores, Lamb. You are smelling whores. It is all over this place. There’s no telling how many women have been through here. I never knew a man who had a greater appetite for whores than Martin.” 

Lambert frowned and walked over to the window in the kitchen, and cracked it just enough to slip the bruised petals out into the night. He turned and strode back to the table, taking the Flin bottle roughly from Campbell before he could take another long pull from it. “Give me that. You’ve had quite enough.” Lambert looked at the bottle, back at Campbell and then took a long pull of his own. It went down as smoothly as ever, blooming hotly at his center and finishing warmly at the edges of body. He felt instantly better, less tired. Campbell stood again and began rummaging, mumbling aloud about whether Martin had anything to eat or smoke in this place. Campbell found a flint lighter and a mostly full pack of Sanjica cigarettes in a drawer and offered Lambert one after taking one himself. They sat for a while in the relative comfort of silence, trading the Flin back and forth and enjoying the mellow high of the Sanjica. In the moment, Lambert could imagine that things might just turn out ok. 

After they finished their smokes, Campbell and Lambert walked around Martin’s rooms turning on lamps and trying to wipe at least some of the dust from the furniture. When they entered Martin’s bedroom, Lambert was again hit with a wave of unusual odors and Campbell just chuckled as he shook out the blankets and fluffed the pillows. Lambert didn’t need to ask what it was – he figured it was the smell of a woman though he had not known one under these types of circumstances. He shuddered lightly, trying to put the images out of his mind that had unwittingly sprung forth as Campbell aired out the bedding. Lambert busied himself with opening up drawers and the wardrobe, finding nothing but some old clothes. There was plenty of room for what little they had. Perhaps in the next day or so they could go and track down some clothes of their own. Their uniforms were already well past the date for cleaning, and Lambert couldn’t imagine having to wallow in grime for much longer. Luckily there were some old but still useable toiletries in the bathroom, and a few towels so he was grateful for at least that. He was relieving himself when he heard Campbell dragging the half trunk from the great room into the bedroom. He was curious to see what was in the trunk, and hoped that Campbell would take it upon himself to show Lambert what was inside of it. 

When he walked out, lacing his breeches back up Campbell was on his knees by the dresser wiping down the trunk carefully. There was something odd about the attention he was giving to clearing the dirt. He walked over to where Campbell was, reaching for a strange jar that was sitting on the dresser. “Don’t touch that!” Campbell said sharply and Lambert drew his fingers back. “Honestly, Thad what is going on with you?” Campbell ignored him and continued working the towel around the fittings and handles. He did not mention the jar, and something told Lambert that it was best not to ask. 

Lambert sighed heavily and went back into the great room to grab their duffles. When he came back into the bedroom, the trunk was fairly clean and Campbell was standing again, holding the jar and peering through the thick glass at something dark that was moving inside. 

Lambert thought for a moment that Campbell had trapped a rat in the jar but when he got closer her realized what it was and backed away, his face going pale. “Please tell me that is not part of that… _thing_.” His mind instantly travelled back to the early morning hours of Keziah Everleigh’s interrogation and how insistent Campbell had been about quickly going back inside the gassed-out interrogation chamber after it was over. Lambert had refused to go in, not trusting the ventilation system to have yet properly done its job but Campbell had. He had stayed in there for a while after Lambert had returned to his desk and had begun the documentation process. Campbell must have found and collected some part of it during that time. 

He remembered how thoroughly Campbell had insisted that they check the interrogation chamber for residue before commencing with their Fugue Feast plans. Lambert had been more than happy to help with that part. He did not want to later have his mind constantly distracted by the idea of some part of it that they may have missed working its way up the side of chair while he was strapped into it. “Thad. That’s what it is, isn’t it.” It was not a question. “Relax Lamb, it can’t get out of this jar. I had it sealed tightly. It remembers me. I like watching it, Lamb. Can you see it responding to me?” Lambert watched in horror as the black-green substance waved under Campbell’s wandering fingertip as if dancing under it, reaching for it. “Thad, please. Put it down. I won’t touch it, but please just put it down.” It made him ill to look at the way that it moved – it reminded him of how various girls at the ‘Cat would tease him when he would go to arrange to take care of yet another of Campbell’s ‘mistakes’. The girls would bend and twist themselves around him, rubbing damply up against him – this thing was moving in a similar way, obscene and grotesquely seductive. Campbell put the jar down, and turned to the trunk. “Are you going to … open it?” Campbell looked at Lambert with a smile that Lambert could not read. He had never seen such a look on Campbell’s face before. 

Campbell left the room, and Lambert could hear him rummaging in the various rooms for something. When he returned, he was carrying a small hammer and what looked like some sort of squat dagger. Campbell seemed pleased with himself and told Lambert that Martin had a great deal more secrets than whores, it seemed. Lambert wasn’t sure what he meant, but knew he’d find out soon enough. Right now his mind was fixed on what could be in the trunk. To his dismay, Campbell took his time – unclasping his buckles, removing his jacket and his boots, loosening his laces and unthreading the blood and fluid-stained tab from his collar before tossing it thoughtlessly on the dresser. He stretched and rolled his head, cracking his neck and shaking down his hands and arms. Was Campbell _nervous_? He was obviously stalling. Lambert decided that perhaps getting a little more comfortable while Campbell wasted time wasn’t altogether a bad idea. It felt good to unclasp, loosen. In time he also was down to his shirt and breeches and by that time Campbell had begun to cleave into the first of the strips of lead holding the trunk shut. 

It didn’t take long to hammer and gouge away the soft lead, and Campbell leaned back on his haunches studying the trunk before reaching to open it. Lambert was not close enough to see what was inside of it, but the smell that exploded from the trunk when Campbell opened it was enough to send him to the bathroom gagging. His mind was reeling. What in the everloving _fuck_ had Campbell brought into this place? Lambert splashed cold water on his face and dragged his wet hands through his hair and stopped, suddenly aware that Campbell was entirely too quiet in the other room. He walked back into the bedroom surprised at how quickly the smell had dissipated. It had faded to something that was more moldering books than rotting flesh. Books, maybe? Papers? He walked over and looked down, and then immediately collapsed to his knees beside Campbell. 

His voice was strained, hoarse as he fought to find his voice. “Thad, Thaddeus. I don’t understand. What have you done? Why? Why?!” Campbell looked down into the trunk and touched the mold-laced face of the boy that had been somehow _folded_ bonelessly into the trunk. He was, or rather had been, young – no more than ten. Were it not for the obvious, Lambert would have thought him a dirty street urchin curled up for a nap. He was having trouble making sense of what lay before him. Had Campbell taken one of the boys for himself? If so, what had he done to him and why on earth had he _kept_ him in this way? 

Lambert struggled to steady his mind through the fog of the Sanjica, flipping through his mental list of candidates – he had interviewed and catalogued each and every boy that had come through the Office but while there was something familiar about this boy he could not place him. Before he could stop him, Campbell dug his arms into the trunk and pulled the boy out, cradling him in his arms. He turned to Lambert, and the boy’s head flopped over. 

Lambert bit back a scream when he saw the boy’s face fully. The boy’s eyes were gummed over with thick clots of some blackened substance that ran down his mold-mottled face. It had pooled and crusted in his nostrils, and his lips were black with it. Blood. Blood from the eyes! Lambert inched back slowly, and then stood steadily. He did not want to startle Campbell or give him any reason to make any sudden moves. He wasn’t sure if the plague could be contracted from a corpse, but he was terrified nonetheless. “Thad, that boy … he had the plague, surely you can see that!” Campbell simply smiled. “Now, Lamb no need to worry about that. Sokolov gave each of us a booster against the plague. I have more than enough in my system to protect against this.” Lambert continued to back up, pulling his shirt up and over his nose and mouth. “Thaddeus, I don’t know what you are talking about. What booster?” As he backed away, he already knew the answer – it was a booster that for whatever reason Campbell had not seen fit to share with him. “Besides, Lamb you can’t catch plague from the dead. You’ll just have to trust me.” 

Campbell stood and approached Lambert, not looking down at the boy. “Look at him, Lamb. Lambert, I said LOOK AT HIM.” Lambert forced himself to look down at the boy, choking down his revulsion and terror. “Tell me, Lamb. Does he look familiar to you?” Lambert had to admit that the boy did look familiar, but he could not place him. “Why, Lambert – can you not see my own face in his?” Lambert went pale. No. This could not be. He had been so careful to track and correct every one of Campbell’s ‘mistakes’. 

Lambert stammered “Thad, I ah.. I don’t know what to say. I know that I could not have missed…” Campbell cut him off and leaned his face in to Lambert’s. “You missed one, Lamb” Campbell shifted the dead weight of the boy in his arms, and reached in to where the boy’s arm was curled into his chest. He pulled the boy’s left arm free, and twisted the wrist just so toward Lambert, “but the Outsider didn’t.” 

Lambert’s mind nearly tore itself apart when he saw the mark on the back of the boy’s hand. He stumbled and gaped wordlessly, trying not to faint. He reached blindly behind himself backing away until the backs of his knees gave way to the edge of the bed. He sat heavily on the bed, unable to think of a single thing to say. 

“Lamb, I have always thought a boy should be of service to his father. What better time than now?” Lambert was stunned. Campbell was so calm, clearly unbothered by the idea of cradling the plague-soaked corpse of this, this.. _abomination_. Lambert finally found his words through the static of his thoughts, toneless and flat. “He marked a child, Thad. A child. What can you possibly mean to do with this thing?” Campbell looked down at the child in his arms and then back at Lambert. 

Lambert would gladly have traded any number of things, possibly even his life to never again see Campbell smiling in the way that he was at that moment. “Baleton, Lambert. The Traehorne Experiments. The notes you have! Think!” It all began to come together at that moment and as Lambert took a moment to review the notes in his mind, he slowly came to understand what Campbell had in mind. Of course. “You mean to augment The Metaphysika Mysterium method, am I correct?” Campbell nodded. “Now you are getting it Lamb.” Campbell walked back over to the trunk, and folded the corpse of the boy neatly back inside and shut the lid. “I know where the key is – the ritual book, Lamb.” Lambert didn’t have to ask which book he meant – it was referenced more than a few times in the Metaphysika, though it did not go into the particulars of the ritual. Lambert hadn’t been aware that the ritual book still existed, and his curiosity got the better of him. “Oh, and where might that be?” 

Campbell went into the bathroom to wash up and between splashes of water told Lambert how Leonard Hume had come to him in confidence and told him that Teague Martin had tracked down the missing Everleigh files, and not only that – had it on good intel that not only were the files found, the very ritual book itself had been found with them as well. Lambert was stunned. “What? Is that what you and Hume had been talking about?! Why didn’t you tell me?” Campbell waved Lambert’s question away. “I didn’t want you to get pulled into this. Any of this. Just leave it at that, Lamb.” Lambert sat quietly for a moment, and before he could speak Campbell continued. “We are going to go get those files and that book. We have to have them. You understand why now, I trust.” Lambert most certainly did, and found himself looking forward to it against all logic or better judgement. “Well? When do we leave? Where are we going?” Campbell finished toweling off, gently patting the remains of his face. “We don’t have much time. We will start preparations in the morning.” Lambert slumped over and rubbed his hands over his face, ready to jump out of his skin at Campbell’s aggravating obtuseness. “Thad, just tell me where we’re going.” Campbell stepped from the bathroom and walked around to where Lambert was slouching on the edge of the bed with his face in his hands. He slapped Lambert’s hands away from his face, admonishing him to pull himself together. 

“We’re going to the Flooded District, Lamb and pray that we get there before Hume does.” 


	4. Incorruptible

Lambert stretched his arms up and then pulled his shoulders forward rolling his back slowly down grunting softly with each satisfying pop coming from his spine. It was late, or perhaps early – it was in the dead hours just before morning and he was exhausted. He and Campbell had spent the past few hours sifting through Martin’s abandoned belongings over every inch of the apartment. Martin had been far more involved with natures of the Void than either of them had guessed. They had found shards of bone charms, crumpled pages torn from a ledger and discarded – filled from margin to margin top to bottom with notes clearly pertaining to the ritual. There had been a few artifacts here and there that Lambert recognized from the evidence rooms, but it was the absence of some key ingredients and tools that had infuriated Campbell. The small ornamental dagger had been one of the items Campbell had been delighted to find but the more they turned over Martin’s belongings the more quiet and sour Campbell had become. Lambert rolled his spine back up slowly and stretched his arms up over his head before bringing them back down with a deep satisfied exhale. Campbell was in the great room swearing under his breath over the various items they had been able to find, and Lamb was entirely too exhausted to muster up any enthusiasm to coax Campbell out of his disappointment. He walked into the great room, sat heavily in one of the chairs around the table, and waited for Campbell to finish his cataloging of the items.

Campbell looked up at Lambert, glaring for a moment before softening his features into a quieter anger. Lambert forced himself to keep eyes to Campbell’s. What was left of his burnt eye was not easy to look at. Without a lid to cover it, the white of the eye had gone dry and spongy – the scorched-black iris sunken unevenly into it. Lambert wondered if it would continue to dry out and shrivel like a raisin or simply start to rot and leak from inside the ruined socket. There was no smell from his wounds – yet, anyway. The worst of the leakage from the burns had thankfully stopped and a crust had begun to form over the ragged edges left behind from Anne’s debriding. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Campbell narrowed his remaining eye as if reading Lambert’s mind and snapped at him to stop looking at him like that. Lambert lowered his eyes, opened his ledger book, and prepared to write down the inventory of items when Campbell began speaking.

“I had hoped to find more than this, but it looks like Martin was at least smart enough to get rid of the more useful items. This will not do, Lamb. We are going to need weapons firstly, but we are going to need a great deal more than just grenades, pistols and ammo.” Campbell looked down at the table and Lamb spoke up then.

“Thad, explain if you please. I understand that we are going to be up against Daud’s men but outside of the music boxes, which we clearly cannot get now - what else would we need? We haven’t always had the music boxes against the Whalers or the Witches for that matter, and have managed well enough. It sounds as if you are suggesting black magic. It isn’t as if we can snap on a bone charm to any great effect – not yet, anyway” he added, gesturing his head toward the closed bedroom door.

Campbell waved away Lambert’s words, and Lambert quieted. “Lamb, you know this isn’t just about Whalers or Witches anymore. Yes, we will be able to tap the Void in time but there is something else out there right now, this very minute – I know this for fact, Lamb. Whoever or whatever it is happens to be far more dangerous than Corvo and his mark, and perhaps darker than Daud himself. I've no doubt that once we have our hands on that book, that thing will strike. If we are to have any chance of making it back from Daud’s base alive, we are going to need something that can fight off whatever this thing may be.”

Lambert narrowed his eyes, bringing the scratching of his pen to a halt. He had been made increasingly aware over the past twenty-four hours that there was much that had been hidden from him. He was curious about what this could be. “Go on, Thad.”

“I need to start from the beginning, so bear with me. I’m sure you recall those hours after the Empress was slain, and I am equally sure you can remember who attended the post-mortem examination and prepared her body for the lying in state. Do you have that report, Lamb?” Campbell waited as Lambert stood and walked to the bedroom where his uniform jacket was hanging from a hook near the washroom door. Lambert returned and laid the packet of reports on the table. The coroner’s report had been just one of the records that Campbell had requested, and of course, Lambert had it right on top of the stack. Campbell sat down at the small table, and gestured for Lambert to sit across from him. Together they read through the coroner’s report. Lambert was not sure exactly what Campbell was looking for but before he could ask, Campbell interrupted him with a slap on the table and a sharp ‘aha! I knew it!’

Lambert frowned, unsure where this was going. Dr. Killjoy had been there at Campbell’s insistence, along with the Coroner of the Empress’s Household Margaret Moyes, a couple of the Bitterleaf boys, and several members of the Academy, including one or two students attending for credit.

“Lamb, I have never mentioned this to anyone – not to anyone, you hear me? There was something … unnatural about the Empress. I do not mean to say unnatural in the way that the Outsider is unnatural, but something perhaps akin to that. Sokolov was fond of her, and she of him and it strikes me only now that perhaps their bond was something more than anyone knew.”

Campbell stopped, chuckling under his breath at the alarmed disgusted twist that Lambert’s face had pulled itself into. “No, Lamb – I don’t mean in that way. Surely you heard the rumors that Sokolov fathered her? I can assure you that is not the case, but no one could be blamed for assuming so given their relationship. By the time Burrows and I had finished with Corvo that first night, the sawbones and philosophers had finished up with the Empress and as you recall, I personally oversaw her preparation for her lying in state. Even in death, as much as it galls me to admit, she was beautiful. I know that you didn’t want any part of it, but you should have seen her lying there, her hair spread around her face, almost glowing somehow after she had been washed. Even the death wound itself seemed impossibly small. Not a mark otherwise on her, Lamb. None of the usual corpse mottle. They did not use makeup on her, nor did they embalm her - did I ever mention that? You saw her at the lying in and would you have guessed that a days-old corpse could have looked so pristine otherwise?”

“Listen to me closely, Lamb – over the course of the next few months I entered her crypt every week or so from the old tunnels. I had a suspicion about the nature of her condition after death and it became clear over time that my suspicions were correct. An Incorruptible, Lamb. She is an Incorruptible. Oh, I see you find that amusing, but let me assure you that she is. The only genuine case I have ever witnessed! Just a few weeks ago, maybe six weeks at most I visited her again there in the crypt. She was still fresh, pale – glowing. There was no smell of decay, Lamb – yes, I swear it! The only thing I could smell was damp and some faint hint of flowers, or something like that. Her skin was cold but supple. I began to undress her to undertake the usual examination and observation but this time when I opened her shirt and removed her shift, her chest was split wide open and her heart – her _heart_ was gone! Yes, Lamb – gone!”

“There is only one other person I know who had access to those tunnels. Morris Sullivan. Yes, Lamb – I always knew there was something tainted about him even outside of his associations with that old Granny Rags. He reeked of the Void, but no one would so much as entertain my speculations. Not a single person. I recall even _you_ expressing disbelief, Lamb. I know that Sullivan took her heart, and I know now who is bound to have it. No, not Granny Rags. Look at that report again, Lamb. Look closely. Piero Joplin, it has to be. He was entirely too… _curious_ about her unclothed remains that day and now he has disappeared without a trace, and I have no doubt in my mind that wherever he is - _he has that heart!_ ”

“Imagine what someone like him could do with it. There is no telling for certain who he is working with, but I assure you that it does not involve basic morbid curiosity or a simple dissection. Channeling the Void through whalebones are one thing, but a human heart – especially that of Sokolov’s pet Empress? Joplin knows about the Metaphysika Mysterium, Lamb – I’d bet my reds on it. We need to be careful. Whalers and Witches dabble in old bones to tap the Void – that we can handle, but I have no idea what kind of energy can be tapped through something like this. I bet he does, though. Yes. We have the materials to build something equally powerful – if not moreso, to fight and protect ourselves against it, but we lack the key to unlock it. Until we get that book and those files from Daud we are at the mercy of whatever thing this is. It could be walking the streets as we speak.”

Lambert sat back, pulling his breath into his nose in as measured breaths as he could manage and letting it out again in slowly as he took in what he had just heard. This was far beyond his imagining – Morris Sullivan digging into the body of the Empress for her _heart_? “You said you told no one about this, and you must forgive me for saying so but you are entirely full of shit, Thad. You know it and I know it. Now, the truth because our lives quite literally depend on it - who else knows about this? Did you share this information with Hume? You did, didn’t you. Hume is not known for prudency nor discretion. You _know_ this.”

Campbell looked down at the table, saying nothing for a moment. He looked up, his remaining eye burning with a familiar zeal “I assure you that Hume has not spoken a word to anyone about this. He is determined to take on Daud personally, no doubt to be the first and only to get his hands on that ritual book. I can predict with some certainty that Hume intends to carry out his part of the Assault plan quite differently than originally laid out. Given this recent turn of events, he is likely to not only abandon the original plan, but to carry it out ahead of schedule given the circumstances. I suspect at this point he is working with Martin in some capacity, and we cannot allow that book to fall into Hume’s hands. I know what Martin is capable of, and as High Overseer there would be no stopping him. Something tells me that Joplin is involved in this as well. The timing of their disappearances cannot be a coincidence. The Metamyst is nothing compared to that book that lies somewhere in Daud’s possession. Martin would not just have access to the powers of the Void – he would have the Outsider directly at his command, with the Academy at the ready to bring forth gods know what from their twisted experiments. Can you imagine, Lamb? The Outsider at the left hand of the High Overseer and a well-trained royal Void-puppet at his right? No. We need to get to Daud before Hume does, and _get that book.”_

***

Lambert stood on the rooftop of Martin’s building looking over the tops of the buildings and out over the Wrenhaven. He needed a break from Martin’s rooms and from Campbell. With the cloud cover, the light from the sun cast in such a diffused way that without knowing for sure it could be either early in the morning or late in the afternoon. He felt cut loose from time – the schedules that he had been accustomed to keeping and enforcing others to keep were lost to him now and he was drifting in a limbo that knew neither punctuality nor tardiness. He instinctively patted his watchpocket, remembering too late that his pocketwatch was gone – either stomped to bits under an Overseer’s boots, pawned or indifferently hoarded with other ill-gotten items.

His pocketwatch had been his tether to reliable rhythms and admirable punctuality, a touchstone that comforted him when time took on ragged irregular edges of tardiness. It had been a gift from his father, given to him as a young man just before the Overseers had taken him. It had been one of the few things he had been allowed to keep. Lambert had proven valuable to Campbell early on, but he was never really sure if he was allowed to keep the watch because he was valuable or because taking it from him had caused the otherwise exceptionally skilled boy to collapse into utter uselessness. Perhaps both. “To be on time is to be late. To be early is to be on time” his father would always say and young Lambert had learned early on that being the ‘best boy’ at whatever was required of him had its advantages. His unusual ability to indiscriminately memorize at a glance paired with an impeccable sense of timing was the primary source of his father’s pride in him, and so it was that Lambert had bricked those abilities firmly into his very foundation.

Now, here on this roof he stood without any bearing looking out over a dismal city – expected to ‘hurry’ in a time where time no longer had context. He inhaled his Sanjica deeply, savoring the fragrant smoke and sense of deep calm that it brought him. He was not sure what kind of tobacco it was – certainly nothing like the occasional cigar he would take from time to time. Martin was clearly a fan, as Lambert and Campbell had found full packs and partial packs throughout Martin’s rooms. Lambert wondered idly where Martin had gotten them, for surely when they were gone Lambert was certain that he would find himself missing them. His mind worked fluidly between each inhale, the anxiety of displaced timetables fading by the minute with each exhale.

The first order of business would be to find suitable weapons. Lambert had no idea where to start in order to find small arms comparable to the Warfare Overseer-issued munitions. He had considered making his way over to the Hounds Pit. He had heard people over there after making his way onto Martin’s roof, their voices tinny and indistinguishable but given the reputation of the establishment it could have been a very good lead in finding weapons. He hadn’t had much time to consider – no more than a few minutes after lighting his first Sanjica someone down there had started shooting what sounded to be a large caliber small arm. Lambert could not imagine how someone in that class of folk would be rash enough to fire weapons openly during what was obviously now a curfew period. Fools and imbeciles he could handle – ones lacking any common sense or basic sense of preservation he could not.

So where to start? In every corner of the seedier of the Dunwall districts there was sure to be found a variety of black-market pistols and small explosives sold with an unspoken guarantee of a high probability of malfunction. He was no longer able to trust his City Watch contacts, and the only other entity with access to the quality of weapons needed were the very Whalers that he and Campbell needed to protect themselves from.

His mind wandered helplessly over a number of topics when what he needed most was to focus. In times of anxiety he found himself often scrambling for some sense of order and though he was relatively relaxed from the Sanjica, this time was no exception. He turned to his most reliable way to ground and center himself. It was time to rebuild, remodel and he put his mind to work in the place where he stood. His mind centered and focused, and a deeper calm came over him as his imagination scraped the building below his feet down to its bones and stones and bit by bit, piece by piece rebuilt it into a sturdy pleasant dwelling. Lightly oiled wood and delicate wallpaper in subdued patterns of ochre and deep green, sturdy well-padded furniture, a small but hardy fireplace, a rooftop conservatory with crystal-glass panels and roofing but his mind continued to wander past the various details of renovation as the Sanjica further infused his blood. Thoughts drifted in kaleidoscope patterns: the delicate balance between tapping the Void and tipping into it, possibilities of getting back his watch, what he would typically be doing at the Office at this moment, Hume choking to death on a jellied eel, Thad’s face… his _eye_ , ugh. Blades, grenades, pistols, black markets – where? How? Who? faces came and went, sliding through and between each other with each turn of thought and then his mind fixed on one flickering repeatedly in the mental patterns. Yes, whatshername... Anne – the young medic.

Lambert’s mind cleared some, its meandering narrowing to a sharper focus. Anne. She certainly would have had to have some excellent sources in order to supply her medical satchel. He dragged off the last of the Sanjica, and flipped the butt-end down over the back side of the building. The shooting had picked up again down at the Hounds Pit. It was time to go, and perhaps the buffoons having a bullet party down at the Hounds Pit would provide a distraction to get him at least part of the way to the Golden Cat unnoticed.

***

The streets of Dunwall were quiet, the only sound the rustling of bits of debris swept across the cobbles by the chilly breeze. Lambert had been prepared to dart from shadow to alley, creeping his way toward the Golden Cat slowly but found within a short time that it was not necessary. He hadn’t seen Watchmen or Overseers (or any heart-wielding madman for that matter) since he left the building and soon fell into a comfortable brisk clip. The air held just enough damp to rime the breeze with the promise of ice and his pace allowed him to warm up enough to pull his hands from his pockets. He wasn’t worried about being recognized now. He had taken some time to get dressed before he left, pulling together what acceptable outfit he could from Martin’s old clothes. Though his look was shabby and a bit dated, he found to his satisfaction that he didn’t look much different than any other citizen he had seen walking the streets of Dunwall. Martin’s clothes fit Lambert well enough. He had to roll up the bottoms of the trousers some but even then the length hid the Overseer boots nearly down to the soles. The old worn shirt fit just fine – the cloth had gone soft with time and wear but the collar was not frayed and the pearly buttons were all still firmly stitched in. The faded Guernsey he had pulled over the shirt held its tight weave well and kept the worst of the chill at bay. Almost as an afterthought, he had grabbed a peaky cap that had been tossed into the bottom corner of the wardrobe and pulled it down over his ears and forehead. He was glad that he had thought to do so. The body warmed with ease, but the ears – not so much.

***

Lamb’s head had cleared considerably on his walk allowing his anxiety and unease to creep slowly in. He had seen a few people here and there, furtively sneaking about against the curfew orders. The streets may close, but people still needed to get to where they were going whether carriages were running or not. The few Lower Watchmen and Overseers he saw did not seem particularly interested in enforcing curfews, largely looking the other way as the citizens crept their way around them. He was afraid that he would be recognized but out of uniform he realized he had little to worry about. He was about halfway to the Distillery District now, and took a bend around a corner to walk up a main stretch lined with various storefronts. He was certain that he would not find any businesses open, not officially anyway. He imagined that the curfew had hit the merchants and vendors hard and hoped he would be able to suss out a signal that suggested that perhaps a backdoor was open for those who wanted to purchase items that would otherwise go unsold. At the very least, there were no looters to worry about that he could see. The shops were as they always had been, but most had little to offer but dark windows. Some had been boarded up out of precaution, or perhaps death. He continued to walk along, taking note of his reflection in the windows – rippled versions of himself in roughly glazed panes, until he passed by one storefront with a particularly flawless set of panes and stopped to look at his reflection in them.

He could see the beginnings of a beard on his face, and while he never would have tolerated a beard in the past he found that first shadows of one seemed to disguise if not almost flatter his slightly receding chin. He had always hated his weak chin, but perhaps with a beard it would not be so bad. He was lost in thought looking at the man he had become, and wondered what his future held for him. He was furious that Campbell had so carelessly exposed him to a plague risk, and allowed for just enough anger before shooing the memory of the boy’s plague-wrecked face from his mind.

There was much that would be useful with the mark on the small body’s hand and he would have to remain steadfast in his refusal to give in to pity or disgust – or worse, fear. He had not felt so much as a sniffle yet. It was his understanding that the plague came on quick and ruthless, and reckoned that if he hadn’t gotten it yet he wouldn’t. He hoped so, anyway.

He tilted his face left and right, examining the dark patches of shadow on his jaw and throat and suddenly realized to his embarrassment that a man had been standing in the window just beyond Lamb’s reflection watching him the whole time. He was a bland-faced man, nothing remarkable. The beginnings of a smile tugged at one side of the man’s mouth and it tilted slowly into a cruel smirk. Lamb’s embarrassment evaporated in a rush of anger. He recognized when someone was having a laugh at his expense. Oh, he knew how the Overseers felt about him – he never failed to pick up on unctuous sarcasm or outright mockery. He could see a similar malignant nature in the man’s smirk and Lamb found no reason not to return the smile, raising his hand slowly in that notorious Tyvian three-finger insult as he did so.

The bland faced man tilted his smirk a little further up the other side of his mouth, and continued to stand there watching with his arms crossed over his chest. He nodded to Lambert in what other circumstances would have been a polite acknowledgment, and out of reflex of impeccable manners Lambert nodded back. He hated himself for it in that moment, and turned his back on the man and abruptly strode away. Before he stepped up on the curb of the opposite side of the street he turned back. He wasn’t entirely sure why. The man wasn’t likely to follow him, but something compelled him to look back. The man was gone now, and Lambert narrowed his eyes to study the sign affixed to one side of the façade. “Looking Glass Emporium” and under the ornate lettering “Cracio du Laplacian, Master Hg. Glazier”. Lambert rolled his eyes and turned and stepped up onto the curb, thinking of various phrases which conveyed the degree to which this self-styled ‘Master Mirror’ could go fuck himself.

The rest of the walk was uneventful, and the bland-faced man faded from Lamb’s forethought, eventually even the man’s face fading from his memory even as the smirk still burned him. The Golden Cat was just ahead. It felt strange being on Clavering again. It seemed like weeks or even months had gone by instead of just a handful of hours and his life as an Overseer seemed even further away from him now than that. The Watch presence was stepped up somewhat now as he entered the courtyard, but not a single of the men did more than just look past him as he made his way to the front doors of the ‘Cat. He hoped Anne was there. It hadn’t occurred to him up until now that she may not be, but she was his only chance now and wishful thinking had proved to be stronger than common sense.

***

Lamb felt faint with relief when he saw Anne behind the large reception desk talking quietly with the same girl Sugar who had been there the day before. He closed the door behind him, and walked toward the desk with what he hoped appeared to be a nonchalant self-assurance. Out of uniform he felt small and powerless, and knew he’d feel it keenly if he got on the wrong side of the guards. There were more now, and they seemed on edge – more watchful than usual. Lamb stood at the desk, politely clearing his throat and to his irritation Anne ignored him, continuing to talk quietly to Sugar. He looked down at the ledger idly, not intending to do more than pass his eyes across it and he caught the name Pendleton. He groaned inwardly thinking of the lot of them – the brutish pompous twins and that unctuous prat Treavor. Treavor Pendleton had many times come to speak with Campbell, never failing to speak to Lamb with that double-edged tone of superiority and obsequiousness. Luckily, Treavor’s name was not on the books today. Just Custis and Morgan. He looked up casually, scanning the room but saw neither and relaxed a bit.

Finally, Anne finished up and walked up to him, asking him point blank what it was he wanted. She had been expecting a request to top off the pain medication and when Lamb quietly told her what it was he needed she seemed a bit taken aback. She gave him the name of a fellow who had a black market shop set up across the canal from what was left of Draper’s Ward. Jerome was his name, and as far as she knew he had the best selection of reliable small arms available along with a surprisingly diverse inventory of various traps. No, she wouldn’t go with him under any circumstances but she did at least have the courtesy to warn him that walking openly into Draper’s Ward was a foolish and dangerous undertaking. She filled him in a little on the current ‘misunderstanding’ between the Dead Eels and the Hatters, and to complicate things there had been sightings of Whalers recently along the rooftops there scouting the area for some reason. There was little else she had to say, but she did at least jot a note of introduction for him to take to Jerome that would allow him to shop, and hopefully cut a little deal. After she gave him the note, she turned back to Sugar and they continued their conversation as if Lamb hadn’t been standing there at all. He turned and walked out of the ‘Cat, keeping his head down as the guards patrolled busily around him. Draper’s Ward seemed impossibly far away, though it was just across the river. He was fairly certain the bridges were guarded far more seriously than the streets were. He wasn’t sure how, but one way or other he would find his way over to Draper’s Ward. There wasn't much of a choice otherwise.


	5. The Boatman

Lamb made his way slowly back through the distillery end of the district heading toward one of the small maintenance bridges connecting the distilleries to the manmade midpoint island that served as a halfway point between the distillery district and the west of Drapers Ward. The bridges connecting the midpoint island to the main banks on either side of the river were little more than piers, so he would have to be careful. Not much room to maneuver, nor any good places to hide along the rickety planks. 

He was nearly at the waterfront now, and when he crept through the wall of light and emerged on the other side, he ducked behind some large crates beside a guard shack and watched the City Watch members coming and going – some seemed serious about their various tasks, while others joked and laughed, or complained and moaned. He had expected to see heightened security at bridge points like this one, but found no more than the usual amount of uniformed men milling about. He crept his way around the perimeter of the waterfront area, staying in the shadow and when he laid eyes on the Wrenhaven saw immediately why the security along this way was decidedly lax at the bridge point – the River Patrol bastards had destroyed both of the small bridgeways and all that was left of either were the ragged stumps of the pylons that had held them up. While the few Watch men stood in a small huddle with their backs to him passing around a bottle, Lamb launched over the cement bulkhead onto the small grassy area on the other side and leaned back on his heels for a moment to catch his breath. He remembered at one time there had been a small water taxi docking area at the foot of the collapsed bridge, and he wondered if people still used it. Maybe if he could find a civilian with a boat… it wasn’t likely, but he was willing to take any chance at this point.

He made his way easily past the City Watch, walking through the docking area uninterrupted – the Officers were nowhere to be found, and the rest of the men were good and drunk by now and no doubt were having much more fun up where they were. Lamb walked as far as the old sewer runoff and saw to his surprise that there was indeed someone docked up ahead. There was nothing left of the water taxi building, but just the same there was a decent sized skiff pulled ashore, and a gentleman with his back to him pulling a warm cap down over his head readying to depart. He nearly deflated with relief and made his way over the rocks and down to the where the skiff was shored. When the man turned, Lamb nearly stopped in his tracks hesitating for only the briefest of moments. Surely now, surely it wasn’t… shit. _Shit!_

“So, we meet again” said du Laplacian, his bland face sliding into an oily smile. Lambert swallowed back his anger, determined not to let the bastard think he had gotten the best of him. Lambert nodded as politely as he could manage and continued down toward the self-styled ‘Master Mirror’. “Well, it is a lucky thing that we meet this way. I do apologize for the rudeness on the street back there but I’m sure you can understand the pressure given the current state of Dunwall. Say, is there any chance that I could convince you to allow me to pay you for a trip across the river?” Du Laplacian’s smile notched up a bit at this, and agreed telling Lamb that he would be more than happy to but he would only be able to take him as far as Draper’s Ward. Lambert allowed his face to drop into defeat ever so slightly, though inside he was nearly screaming with delight. “Well, I suppose that will be my destination then” and the two of them boarded the skiff. Before there could be any talk of payment, Lamb caught a troubled look from du Laplacian as he looked over Lamb’s shoulder. Lamb turned to see several Lower Watch men coming down the stairs near the large sewer runoff and were clearly making their drunken way toward them. Few men are more mean or stupid than Lower Watch guards, and Lamb had no doubt that a liberal lubrication with spirits was not apt to make them any less mean or stupid. Du Laplacian, evidently also finding this to be the case hastily fired up the surprisingly powerful engine of the skiff and pulled them way from the shore quickly. They were out in the open water of the channel before either of the men spoke again. 

“You are lucky you found me when you did, sir. I was already running a little behind – I have an appointment with a painter and a dressmaker in Draper’s Ward within the hour.” While du Laplacian was checking his pocketwatch, Lambert smiled thinly. So, the man was mad apparently, but he would play along willingly as long as he got across the river. 

“Is that so? I hadn’t realized that merchants were still conducting business there, much less painters. I must admit that I myself have an appointment there, as it happens.” 

At this, du Laplacian looked up from his watch, snapped the face shut and slid it back into his vest pocket. “I see! As a former Overseer, you must realize you face a number of challenges that I as a fellow merchant do not. Don’t look so surprised, Brother Lambert is it? Or, _was_ I suppose.” Du Laplacian chuckled at the stunned look on Lamb’s face, and assured him that he could relax. “I remember you from the years I ran an exotic flower stand on Clavering during the Fugue Feast weeks.” As to emphasize his point, he leaned toward Lamb and opened the breast of his jacket, revealing an unusual black rose pinned to his vest. “It is just a hobby now, but during that time it was my livelihood you see.” 

Lamb did relax then. For a moment he thought he was losing his mind, or had fallen into the hands of some madman with an axe to grind at the expense of the first available Overseer, or former Overseer as it were. He sensed that du Laplacian was not finished talking, and he was correct. 

“I’ve heard the announcements about Campbell. If I’m not mistaken you were his… secretary, correct? That makes you particularly vulnerable. Perhaps you should take this for luck, if not protection.” Lamb wasn’t sure what to think when du Laplacian unpinned the black rose from his vest and handed it to him. “I am the only person who has ever grown these roses, you see and while you see a mere weekend gardener and looking-glass maker before you I can assure you that there are many other things for which I am known, and far more for those for which I am feared.” 

Lambert took the rose and flinched at the smell as he pinned it to his jacket. He recognized the smell immediately from the crushed petals in Martin’s rooms and wondered what had gotten into Martin that he would purchase such horrible smelling things. Then again, the closest association with these black roses in Lamb’s mind was the pungent unclean smell of spent witches or whores, so perhaps it made perfect sense why Martin had gotten them given his proclivities toward such. And now, here he sat wearing Martin’s clothes, pinning this flower to Martin’s jacket. Seemed Martin and whores were never far apart in some form or other.

They were nearly at the first line of buoys marking the end of the channel when du Laplacian checked his pocketwatch and spoke again. “I do detest being late, Lambert so allow me to drop you at the waterfront. I have always been of a mind that being early is the true form of being on time, and so here I am on time and feeling as if I am late. I’m sure you understand.” Lamb saw the hint of some cryptic smile pulling at one corner of the man’s mouth as he said this, and he understood in the moment of hearing his father’s words through the mouth of this stranger that this Master Mirror was perhaps far more dangerous than he let on and for the first time Lamb began to feel the first stirrings of fear. With du Laplacian’s oily smile and hooded eyes, Lambert had no trouble picturing him smiling that same bland smile while murdering someone – perhaps subtly, like slowly grinding a blunt stick into someone’s eye. Lambert returned what he hoped was a gracious smile, and cleared his throat as a distraction into a change of subject. “I do understand, and I am grateful for your willingness to ferry me across. So, what will you require in payment, Sir?” 

Du Laplacian looked at him and nodded. “I would like to say that I granted you this trip from the goodness of my heart, but that would be a lie. You strike me as someone who will one day prove to be quite resourceful and it is my hope that were I to pay you a visit some day in the future you would remember this and grant me what you feel is a payment in kind, or perhaps more. A high return on a simple investment, if you will.” 

Lambert didn’t know what to say to this, so he just nodded with a bit deeper dip of his chin as a way to acknowledge the gravity of the exchange. He skin was crawling now, and he did not think he would be able to get out of the skiff quickly enough. He only hoped he could maintain the necessary composure not to fly out and hit the ground in a dead run. He concentrated on the sound of the water lapping at the sides of the skiff, at the smell of the oiled water ripe with dead fish, the sounds of shouts floating across the water on the fog that suddenly seemed to be rolling in from all directions.

The skiff finally pulled into the waterfront basin, chugging slowly around a huge dump-bucket of a ship that was made fast to one of the docks by more than a dozen mooring lines. Du Laplacian cut the engine down to idle and pulled the skiff up alongside the lower part of a dock near the waterfront entrance. He didn’t say anything to Lambert, merely smiled and nodded his head down once as a goodbye, his eyes as flat and dead as coins. Lambert returned the nod, and stepped up and out of the skiff and shook down his clothes, smoothing out the wrinkles. He turned to watch du Laplacian pull away from the dock but the skiff was gone, swallowed whole by the thick fog blanketing the water. 

Lambert allowed himself a breath or two of relief before becoming acutely aware of the sheer number of dangerous looking people who were milling around him and eyeing him suspiciously. Dock hands, or perhaps one of the gangs that Anne mentioned – the Dead Eels. He straightened his spine, and tipped his chin up ever so slightly feeling none of the confidence that he hoped he was conveying and made his way to the entrance to Drapers Ward only to be nearly immediately accosted by a tiny bulldog-faced woman brandishing a well-used gaff hook. She hadn’t gotten out more than a handful of insults when her eye caught the flower pinned to Lamb’s jacket. The effect was immediate. 

She backed away, her eyes darting up to the rooftops as if expecting someone or something to appear there and spat at his feet – gesturing some protective hex over her person and walked away. He saw her quietly talking to her fellow Eels and one by one, they turned to look at him and then up at the rooftops. Lambert wasn’t sure what this meant, if anything – were the Whalers up there somewhere darting around? What would that have to do with the ‘Master Mirror’ and his malodorous black flowers? Either way, he wasn’t concerned once he realized he was fully out of danger. When he left the waterfront he could still feel the Eels' eyes burning into his back as the door thunked solidly shut behind him. 

***

It had been a while since Lamb had been to Drapers Ward, five years at least. He had come to consult with a draper about fitting the Office with fresh banners and drapes, and the particular shade of red that Campbell had in mind had been aggravatingly difficult to reproduce using the fabric that he had chosen. Eventually the drapes had been produced and delivered to the Office as contracted, but at a great mental and emotional cost to any who were involved in said production. Even Lamb had to admit that Campbell’s rigidity and inability or willingness to compromise was ridiculous, but he never indicated as such to the drapers. When Campbell shoveled shit down on him over those fucking _curtains_ , he simply continued rolling it downhill onto the drapers working on the project. 

He looked around in dismay at what was left of Draper’s Ward. It had been grand back then, the storefronts each marvels of finely wrought cast iron, heavy beveled lead-crystal panes and warm gold-leafing caressed deftly onto richly-oiled intricately carved darkwood. The air had been heavy with the smell of raw textiles, somehow pure beyond just ‘clean’ and floating here and there along the walkways faint trails of fine colognes. Sandalwood, vetiver, agarwood, citrus all mixed in a curiously pleasing way with the undertones of the stagnant water in the canal. That was all gone now. 

The canal had been drained for some reason, and the air stank of sour mud, rotting fish and the occasional decaying corpse. The storefronts that were not boarded up had been smashed up, and graffiti had replaced the masterfully designed placards that had lined the walkways. Lamb couldn’t see anyone at first, but he could certainly hear the gunshots. Anne had clearly understated the ‘conflict’ but she was correct in how dangerous it was and Lamb kept that in mind as he crept through the walkways under cover of various trash bins, stacks of textiles and barrels. There didn’t seem to be many people around – he recognized the few men milling around as Hatters and something told him that they would not be inclined to give him directions to Jerome’s shop. He would figure it out one way or the other. 

He got nearly halfway through the main thoroughfare before he ran into trouble. He knew that he should have taken greater care, but his impatience had gotten the best of him and he had tried to hurry through instead of taking his time. He had nearly pissed himself when he heard the first cranking whirrs and klaxon pulse of the arc pylon and had the good sense to throw himself back out of range. He had spent so much of his time walking past these things without a care that it had literally not occurred to him that he could be in danger from one. He had never encountered one that had been attuned _against_ him before. He swore and stood, brushing the oily grit from his jacket and stood his ground when two Hatters rounded the corner with their hands on their pistols and approached him. There was nowhere to run, and doing so would end with a bullet or two in his back so he pulled together his best Overseer stance, hoping that he could still convey that haughty confidence without the benefit of his mask or uniform. 

If the Hatters saw anything other than a man being where he wasn’t supposed to be they didn’t act as such. They circled Lamb hawking and spitting in the exact way that Lambert hated, and it was all he could do not to lose his composure. The young ginger Hatter was the first to make a move, and the quickness by which he spun Lamb around by his jacket was matched only by the quickness with which he dropped his hand and backed away at the sight of the black rose pinned to Lamb’s jacket. Both Hatters exchanged a silent acknowledgment and at that moment the sound of breaking glass from above had all three men looking up at the glass paneled roof above the main thoroughfare. 

There was a woman in a short jacket, cropped breeches and a jaunty hat up there watching them, and her footing had slipped just enough to crack the weakened pane she had been standing on. She knew she had been caught, and before any of the men below had time to react she was gone leaving only a cloud of black motes in her wake. Lamb knew very well what she was and while he was afraid of coming across a Witch unarmed and unprepared, he was not nearly as frightened by her as the Hatters were. They continued backing away from Lamb, watching him carefully as they retreated behind the safety of the pylon.

Lamb was confused by this exchange – the Hatters clearly associated this black rose with the Witches, and it stood to reason that Mr. Master Mirror must be keeping some very dangerous company indeed. He had told Lamb that he was feared, and Lamb was just now beginning to fully understand why. He was grateful for the protection this black rose evidently granted him but at what cost? Lambert had no desire or intention to involve himself with Witches, and he had no doubt if they knew who he was they would be far more inclined to kill him than ally with him. In Lamb’s experience with Witches – like wharf roaches, where there was one in plain sight, there were scores more creeping nearby in the shadows. He shuddered at the idea of them creeping around unseen but if they were run off so easily as this one had been perhaps he wasn’t the one in danger. 

Lamb doubled back the way he came and headed toward the canal from the apartment side and carefully made his way out onto the walkway that ran down each side of the canal. Looking left and right he caught sight of a few people here and there. Hatters on this side of the canal and Eels on the other. Perhaps if he made his way slowly without showing any particular threat he would be ok. The Hatters and Eels seemed far more preoccupied with watching the rooftops at any rate. Scanning the buildings across the canal, he saw one that looked to be promising. There was a man standing on the balcony of the second floor of one of the shops – just an ordinary looking man in a drubby jacket and trousers having a cigarette, no sign of gang related clothing or accessories. The building looked to be in a little less poor shape than the ones around it and Lamb figured this must be where Jerome did business. 

Lamb made his way over the walkway with little issue. The little bulldog-faced woman was there; she evidently had followed him from the waterfront. With her was a hulking brute of a man leaning on a splintered ‘For Sale’ sign propped up on the crumbling wall of a storefront watching Lamb with a flinty-eyed determination but neither made a move in his direction. He continued on making his way to Jerome’s shop.

The shop had no apparent way in from the bottom floor. The door was boarded firmly shut, and roll-crank ladder to the balcony had been broken beyond use. Jerome himself had gone back inside, and the balcony doors were shut tight. He made his way around to the back of the building and saw an open window above a placard kiosk. Seeing no other way in, Lamb hauled himself up onto the top of the kiosk and pulled himself into the window, only to be greeted with the business end of a very effective looking pistol. The man may have been ordinary, but that clearly didn’t mean he was harmless, and the expression on his face suggested that Lamb was one trigger pull away from having his brains cleared from his skull. 

Lamb froze crouched on the windowsill and slowly held his hands up praying he could keep his balance in the process. “Talk” said Jerome, and Lamb did. “Wait, I have a letter from Anne recommending me – she said…” Jerome interrupted him “I don’t give a fuck who recommended you. You come here climbing in my window and…” Jerome stopped when he saw the black rose pinned to Lamb’s jacket and lowered his pistol, thumbing the safety back into place. “Fuck me, I nearly killed you.” He reached out his hand, and helped Lamb over the small cabinet that was under the window.

“Well, welcome to the Drapers Ward Salvage and Resale, or black market if you’d prefer. It’s Lambert, right? Mr. du Laplacian said you’d be here, but I hadn’t expected it to be so soon.” Lambert took a moment to catch his breath and looked around. Yes, Anne had been correct about Jerome indeed. There were plenty of goods to be had – mines, grenades, explosive bullets, well-crafted sturdy large-caliber pistols. Now that he was here, Lambert realized that the quality of these ill-gotten goods were far higher than he had anticipated and were probably out of his range of being able to pay for them. He felt so tired in that moment. Defeated. A few days ago, his biggest worry was tracking down a decent vintage of Tyvian Red in time for Campbell’s meeting and now here he was standing in a black market wearing _Teague Martin’s_ clothes and wondering how to best pay for items that he had never thought in his lifetime he would ever need to use for the reasons he needed to use them. A dead Void-tainted kid stuffed in a trunk, the High Overseer branded, the forbidden ritual book, the city falling into ruins, plague – it was all catching up to him now, the shock of it wearing off all at once leaving Lamb with little else but a weary heaviness inside. 

Jerome spoke up from behind him “If its coin you are worried about, you’re covered. Mr. du Laplacian paid in advance for well, _everything_. Take what you need. I’ll have a fresh supply coming in later this evening.” Lambert turned, struggling to hide his surprise and Jerome handed him a large empty rucksack. When Lambert finished carefully packing up the rucksack and turned to go, Jerome spoke up. “Hey, Mr. du Laplacian said to give you this on the way out. Said to tell you to consider it an up-front investment.” 

Lambert held out his hand and took the small non-descript wooden box from Jerome. He opened it, and there laying on a bed of dark blue velvet was his pocket watch. It had been polished to a fine shine, the many miniscule scratches it had accrued over the years on the case and the bow had been buffed out and the etching on the back was as clear and deep as it had been the day his father had given him the pocket watch. _To be early is to be on time. To be on time is to be late._

There had been a few links that had been broken on the belt chain and Lambert had failed to find just the right replacements for them. The mismatched gauge of the repaired links had always irked him to no end, but now the repairs themselves had been repaired leaving no sign that the links had ever been broken. He pressed down on the crown, and the intricately guilloche-patterned cover sprang open with a quick ease that it hadn’t seen in years. The crystal was clear and free of nicks and scratches, and the escape wheel was busily clicking tick, tick, tick. Lamb closed his eyes, and gently closed his fist around the pocket watch cherishing the weight of it and the peace of mind that came with that small heft. He didn’t think that he would ever know that exact peace again. He almost didn’t want to clip the watch to his belt for fear of it scratching or scuffing but in the end he did, and slid the watch into his pocket. It felt good to have it back. So good in fact, that he refused to consider how du Laplacian had not only acquired his watch but repaired it to brand new condition in such a limited time with no doubt limited resources. He didn’t care about that, only that he had it back. He knew that one day he would owe du Laplacian in spades, and he found he felt no regret in that whatsoever. 

Between the two of them, Jerome and Lambert had managed to get Lamb back down through the second floor window and the bulging rucksack down in one piece and Lambert bade Jerome a thankful goodbye and made his way back out toward the waterfront. 

He had no idea how he was going to get back across the river, but there seemed to be far more river commerce on this side of the Wrenhaven than the other so he wasn’t terribly worried. The gunshots had picked up some, and Lambert could see out the corner of his eye Eels and Hatters engaging with increasing violence. He kept his head down, praying a stray bullet didn’t catch the rucksack. There was no telling how many pieces he would be blown into should one of them strike in just the right spot. As he hurried back toward the waterfront entry he kept his eyes ahead and often above scanning the roofs for Witches. A few times he thought he caught a streak darting here and there up above but when he reached the entryway to the waterfront he was so relieved to have made it out that he didn’t think much more about it. 

As luck would have it, he ran across another boatman at the waterfront who had been in the area gathering up supplies and after a brief conversation with the decidedly friendly older gentleman was able to catch a ride with him back across the river. As it happened, he was heading for the Old Port District and was more than happy to drop Lambert off just past the quarantine area near the Hounds Pit. Lambert didn’t ask the boatman’s name, nor did the old fellow offer it but in the three-quarters of an hour or so he had spent in his company Lambert reckoned that the old fellow was probably the only genuinely good person that he had met in all his years in Dunwall. Lambert stepped off the skiff, and after a wave and hearty well-wishes the boatman pulled back into the river and for some reason that he could not pinpoint Lamb felt strangely sad to see him go.

He turned and adjusted the heavy rucksack on his back and made his way back to Martin’s building – his and Campbell’s now, he supposed. The sun was sinking low on the horizon now, and the dark was closing in pulling a bone-chilling damp in behind it. Lamb hurried his steps well aware that a lone man with a large full rucksack was ripe for a mugging. It was going to be a long night, but at least Campbell would be happy to see what Lambert had come back with, or at least he hoped so. Lamb wasn’t looking forward to paying a visit to Daud’s hideout, but at the very least he felt a little more secure about it now.

As he made his way up the steps of the building, and let himself inside he began to lay out the best path for them to take to the Rudshore District. By the time he reached the second floor, turned onto the landing and let himself in the apartment the map in his head was marked with care, with every contingency mapped out in precise detail. He was dead tired, but it was time to make some preparations. He looked forward to fucking up Hume’s plans, even if it meant paying an unexpected and dangerous visit to one Mr. Daud. 


	6. The Flooded District

“He was almost an Overseer, Lamb. Can you imagine?” Lambert lowered his spyglass, and looked over at Campbell. The unburned side of Campbell’s face was turned toward Lambert, and for a moment Thad looked almost like his old self particularly since he had insisted on wearing his reds even though there were plenty of less conspicuous clothes he could have worn. Lambert had spent the better part of the morning trying to talk Campbell out of wearing the reds, but Campbell had stubbornly insisted that the reds were his and he intended to continue wearing them. Period. Lambert had to admit some level of grudging admiration at Thad’s tenacity, but that did not mean he didn’t think him a fool. 

The plan had been to discreetly make their way to the Flooded District, and then carefully find a way into the main square – once the ‘five points’ of commerce but now home to a series of scaffolds and makeshift walkways above the darkened streets that connected the handful of ramshackle buildings that served as Daud’s hideout. Since no one at the Office had been willing to touch Campbell after his branding, much less search his person he still had his master keys and as Lamb had suspected, the locks on the various pass-through doors throughout the district had not been changed.

They hadn’t gotten so much as a sideways glance as they worked their way past shell-shocked citizens and shambling weepers polluting what was left of the streets in the Flooded District. They saw every walk of plagued citizen from prostitutes and aristocrats to City Watch men and Overseers in varying degrees of walking decay – purging pestilence from both ends of their bodies with no sense of self-awareness or shame. They did not seem to take notice of Campbell or Lamb, but both men found it to be in their best interests to stay as far away as possible from them and stay as hidden as possible. Lambert had spent every moment since stepping foot into the Flooded District praying to a higher power he no longer believed in to protect him from contracting plague. Campbell didn’t seem to be overly concerned, but then again – he had received the immunity booster from Burrows. That Lamb hadn’t known about this booster was another thing that he consistently had to push to the back of his mind. The carefully planned path through otherwise locked doors to avoid the bulk of trouble had been fairly easy to follow up until now and they had finally made it to the square without incident. Now that they were here, crouched but a few blocks away from the locked door that would give them access to the square, Lamb found himself even more on edge. Thanks to Thad’s obstinate bullheadedness over wearing the damned reds, once inside the square the reds would act as an easy target. Sneaking around discreetly in bright red through a far more dangerous area may be easy for a man like Daud but Lamb had serious doubts about Thad’s ability to do so. 

From their vantage point they could now see parts of the walkways of Daud’s hideout through various gaps and chunks torn out of the sides and corners of the buildings they carefully made their way around. Any chance at ‘discreet’ was long gone now though. As long as they stayed unseen, it would probably be ok but the second one of those Whalers laid an eye on the reds it would be over quickly. Lamb wasn’t sure how exactly, but it seemed that the Whalers had an ability to communicate as a whole – like a swarm of insects or a school of fish. He supposed that Daud’s mark had some wide-spread field of corrupting ability that weak-minded people were susceptible to. Whether that was actually the case or not was no matter – the important thing was to stay hidden just in case. Lambert leaned out a bit from the alleyway they were crouching in and looked around carefully before ducking back in, making sure there were no ears or eyes lurking in the immediate area. There was a cluster of those damnable river krusts just around the corner, and he hadn’t heard the usual shouts or swears that accompanied a blast from them so he was fairly certain they were alone in the immediate area, or at least relatively so. He knew that there was a very good chance that he would fail to keep control of his voice at this point.

“What?!” Lambert struggled to keep his voice to a low hiss. “Do you mean to hunch there in front of me, and tell me that Daud – the _assassin_ Daud – that cretinous _heretic_ , was almost an _Overseer_? Surely you’re joking. How _dare_ you make light in a time like this! This is not the time nor the place to…” Campbell reached over to Lamb, slowly curling his fingers around Lamb’s tatty jacket lapel before jerking it roughly, pulling Lamb’s face to his own. “Do I _look_ like I’m joking, Lamb?” Lambert had to admit that he did not – he had only seen this expression on Thad’s face a handful of times, all of which had ended painfully and eventually fatally for those at the receiving end of it. Campbell held Lambert for a second or two more before lightly shoving him off. Lamb stumbled back on his haunches, but righted himself quickly and focused on regaining his composure while re-adjusting the black rose pinned to his lapel. Campbell had nearly knocked it off, and Lamb found himself oddly unwilling to lose it. He adjusted the stem and pinned it more snugly to his lapel.

“Ok, Thad. Fine. I suppose you are going to tell me all about it, of course.” Campbell’s expression relaxed some, and something like a smile curled around the unruined corner of his mouth. “I know you don’t believe me, Lamb but you were never meant to know. It was High Overseer Battista who told me as he was dying. Gerard spent his last hour passing along the unwritten secrets of the Abbey to me, to carry forward with me in my own tenure as High Overseer. What’s that Lamb? Of course it was pre-determined! The Painted Kettles nonsense is merely a formality. I doubt more than a handful of the Abbey are aware of this, but that is simply how it is. Well, now you know, Lamb.”

“As I was about to explain – a member of the Morley Oracular enclave recorded a vision she had just after the Insurrection began to pick up speed. This vision was shared with High Overseer Battista, who then shared it with the Abbey’s inner circle. They called this prophecy the Dawning of the Void Star. The original prophecy is lost to time, but the interpretation of it is not. It was determined that in a faraway place, a child had been born who was fated to slay the Outsider. Yes, Lamb _kill_ the Outsider! Of course the Abbey and the Order made finding this child the top priority of the time, and the Insurrection provided enough of a distraction for the Inner Circle to carry out this search without interference from other members of the Abbey or the Crown.” 

”They indeed found this child, yes Lamb. They had a man that worked for them that was especially good at ‘recruiting’ children for the Abbey. He had a talent like no other – the man could change his speech and his appearance seemingly by will. No, not by supernatural means – the man was simply a very gifted actor. Even without his immaculate disguises and bag of stage-makeup tricks he was able to subtly maneuver his face and bearing directly in ways that made you swear he was not the same man from moment to moment. He was no fan of the Abbey, but he was a fan of the large quantity of coin he gained by assisting them in the manner, and of course in other manners. It was rare for parents to truly want to give up their gifted children, but old Bill Black could appear in their midst in any place in the Isles without a second glance and easily guide the children out by the hand without so much as a peep of resistance. He had a trick that he did, several of them – simple stage tricks that could grab a child’s attention and keep it, and not only that – turn that attention to fascination and if he chose, loyalty. Mesmerizing, they called it. Hypnotizing, if you prefer.” 

”High Overseer Battista personally requested Bill Black’s help in this matter, and with a pocketful of gold and sheer determination he traveled down to Serkonos to fetch this child. He sent back dispatches of observations to confirm the boy’s abilities and inherent talents and it was determined that this was the boy that Black was meant to fetch. And so he did. He took the boy with no incident, but by the time he got back to Dunwall we now know that he had no intention of giving the boy over to the Abbey. At the time, however Gerard had no inclination that this was the case.” 

”Bill Black was not only a gifted actor, but a skilled speechcrafter as well. He had them all fooled, even those who could claim to see past the ability of ordinary sight. Gerard himself went out into the night to meet them at a predetermined location, traveling under heavy disguise with only the company of an equally well-disguised Sister. This young Sister, barely out of childhood had travelled from Morley as proxy for the Oracle who had the vision. The Oracle was determined to lay her eyes on the boy himself to see whether this was truly the Void Star of prophecy and would be able to do so through the young Sister’s eyes.”

”It took not more than a few minutes into the meeting behind the Duke and Dancer Pub for two things to be determined: this boy was no doubt gifted, but he was not the Void Star. Oh how angry Gerard was. Even years later as his eyes were clouding over with death I could see that spark of anger lighting up behind them still.” 

“The young Sister took the brunt of the Oracle’s anger. From what Gerard recounted to me, she nearly died where she stood – blood was coming out of every hole in her body, he told me. Her eyes, her nose, mouth, down her legs – it was a miracle she survived that night. Gerard never told me what became of her, but she lived at least. Her name was Glenda, if I recall. No, _Gwynda_ – that’s right. No matter.” 

”Gerard still wanted the boy, though. Void Star or no, it was obvious from the boy’s aura that he possessed some level of natural power that could prove useful to the Abbey. Bill Black was having none of that. He was no doubt disappointed that this boy would not net him what he expected, but as soon as he saw the determination with which the High Overseer was arguing with him over handing over the boy he realized that perhaps the boy had something that would be far more useful to Bill Black than he had anticipated.” 

”Gerard was not expecting to be caught in a loophole – the boy was not the Void Star, so Bill Black was not obligated to hand over a goddamned thing. He agreed to continue assisting the Abbey in other ways, and he did. Whether it was putting down High Overseer ‘accidents’ or other nuisances, he was good for his word. But the boy, he kept. That boy was Daud, Lamb. No, I have no idea what happened after – Bill Black disappeared after a few years, and not long after that Daud emerged as we know him now. I don’t know if Black was connected to the Outsider or not, but there was never any evidence of such that I know of.” 

”What’s that Lamb? Oh, yes – we did find the Void Star eventually. Bill Black took the wrong boy. He was meant to take _Corvo Attano_. Haaa haa haaa Lamb, what faces you pull. You always amuse me. Yes, Corvo Attano was the one fated to carry the Abbey into victory over the Outsider but here we are. Thanks to Bill Black, the Abbey lost a champion while the Crown gained a heretic. The very man who was meant to fight the Outsider by my side became an agent of the Outsider instead and branded me. Daud took down the Crown, and the city is sinking into darkness. All because of the mistake of William _fucking_ Black.” 

Lamb allowed himself to fall back off his haunches, landing heavily on his arse but too stunned to take note of the hard fall. Daud, an Overseer? What would that have been like? What had Bill Black done to the boy to turn him into Daud? The Abbey had seen the potential in the boy, but it was the Outsider who ultimately reaped the benefits of that potential. Had the Outsider seen this prophecy and simply taken those who were meant to kill him as his own instead? If Corvo was fated to kill the Outsider, then why had Daud been marked? And Thad and his insistence on getting this book from Daud – were his stakes higher than he had let on? 

The questions swelled inside Lamb’s brain, spinning rapidly around conclusions that he could make no sense of. He knew that he had been lied to and misled on a number of things, but he had not considered that his entire system of neatly-arranged beliefs and the beliefs of nearly the entirety of the Abbey and the Oracular Order were merely props. He no longer felt any particular fealty to the Abbey but he had known a good deal of men who were genuinely devout in their practice, and had believed in their principles without even a sliver of doubt. Those loyal, dedicated men he felt genuine sadness for.

Lamb began to understand now what Campbell meant to do by means of the MetaMyst, the marked boy and the ritual. He wasn’t just going to use these tools as a means to an end – he was going to use these as a means to end the Outsider. What would that mean for the Abbey? The Oracular Order? It hadn’t occurred to him, or to any other Abbey or Oracular Order members that he knew of that the Outsider could be killed. Without the Outsider, what would be the use of the Abbey? Unless… no. Lamb’s mind clicked into a conclusion that he did not want to consider. Campbell didn’t want to kill the Outsider to free the world from him. If Lamb’s conclusion was correct, Campbell wanted to kill the Outsider and _take his place._

A sick chill burst through Lamb’s insides sending cold beads of sweat trickling down from his scalp and into his collar. No, it was too horrible to consider. Lamb had no problem with the idea of harnessing the power of the Void to use to their own ends, but he could not imagine a man like Thaddeus Campbell becoming the _source_ of that power. Before he could consider it further, he was snapped back into reality by a sudden hard smack across his cheekbone.

“Lamb, pay attention! Do you not hear that?” Campbell turned from Lamb and leaned out of the alley and Lamb could hear it now – sharp cries interspersed with a series of filthy oaths. The river krusts had been triggered by someone nearby. It was a woman’s voice, and within seconds of the churring and spitting of the river krusts bursts of green light reflected on the walls just around the corner and strange whispering sounds curled and settled into Lamb’s ears with a nauseating pulsing sensation. Witches. _Shit!_ Whalers were bad enough, but Witches now too? What were they doing here? 

Campbell inched out of the alleyway and Lamb crept out behind him. The street was silent now, and Lamb quickly scoped the tops of the buildings with his spyglass seeing no one or no _thing_ lurking around up there. As they made their way around the corner, Lamb’s heart was thumping hard in his chest and clogging his throat – what if the Witch was waiting up there for them? They turned the corner, and it was immediately apparent that there was no threat. The river krusts had been been blown to bits, but the Witch had evidently taken a direct and fatal hit from them. She lay dead in the street, curled up on her side – the river krust acid still bubbling its way through a wide swath of the skin of her face, neck and right arm. Lamb had known that river krusts were dangerous, but he had never before seen the sort of carnage that this one had wrought. These river krusts had mutated somehow – perhaps from feeding on the effluvia of the plague dead rotting and softly disintegrating in the flood waters. If other river krusts in the district were as strong as this one, they would need to be especially careful. Lamb had anticipated burns from them, but not fatality. 

Campbell stood over the Witch, prodding her roughly with the toe of his boot to make sure she was dead and after a few unnecessary kicks to her quickly disintegrating head turned and made his way up the street toward the locked door. Lamb followed along, scoping the roofs as they went. Once they reached the door, Campbell unlocked it without hesitation and they made their way into the square. 


End file.
